


Rainbow’s Freedom (Shadow Of The Bat Arc)

by BradyGirl_12



Series: Rainbow's Freedom [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU - Comicverse, Green Arrow, Green Lantern (Comic), Superman (Comics), Superman/Batman (Comics), Wonder Woman (Comics), World's Finest (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Bondage, Bondage and Discipline, Canon Het Relationship, Drama, Established Relationship, F/M, Het, Het and Slash, M/M, Male Slash, Master/Slave, Rape, Rope Bondage, Series, Sexual Slavery, Sexual Violence, Slash, Slave Trade, Slavery, Violence, World's Finest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-14
Updated: 2012-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-01 22:53:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 35
Words: 61,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BradyGirl_12/pseuds/BradyGirl_12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the 23rd century, Earth is a technologically-advanced society that practices the ancient institution of slavery.  The wealthy freeman Bruce Wayne acquires a highly-prized pleasure slave whom has fallen in love with him…but can the Prince of Gotham ever return that love?  And will it all be moot as a weak abolitionist movement slowly gathers strength while the Galactic Empire remains in a perpetual state of Cold War?  The entire series can be found <a href="http://bradygirl-12.livejournal.com/20472.html">here.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kingdom

**Author's Note:**

> Original LJ Dates Of Completion: March 14-August 4, 2007  
> Original LJ Dates Of Posting: August 5, 2007-January 15, 2008  
> Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em, DC does, more’s the pity.  
> Original LJ Word Count: 60,322  
> Feedback welcome and appreciated.  
> There are a total of nine arcs in this series.  
> The _magnificent_ story cover is by the wonderfully-talented [Ctbn60](ctbn60.livejournal.com). Thanks so much, luv! :)

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/bradygirl_12/pic/0001ye55)

_He dwelt in the Ivory Tower,  
Looking down upon the enchanted city  
And suffering compassion for his people.  
The Prince would always protect them,  
Forever and a day._

**J.M. Simon  
  
"Enchanted Fairy Tales"  
  
1963 C.E.**

He seethed.

The night was black velvet, wrapping him in its sensuous folds. Stars glittered down to merge their starlight into garish streetlights, shadows flitting at the edges.

The city throbbed, life pulsing in its bars and clubs, in mansions and tenements. Laughter spilled out as revelers lurched down the street, smelling of cheap booze and stale cigarette smoke. Further uptown, the booze would be expensive and the cigarettes imported. 

Wind blew over the rooftops, his black cape billowing out behind him in a tableau worthy of an old Victorian engraving.

The Batman surveyed his city, letting his rage wash over him. Rage against the scum that blighted his city, against the cruelties that Humans visited upon one another, against the memories of that damnable whip that had torn the flesh of his cherished slave into bloody strips…

He clenched and unclenched his gloved fist, the leather creaking as he pondered. He thought he had purged himself of that final rage. The first time that he had patrolled after the whipping, his rage had nearly blinded him with its intensity. Woe to the criminals that night! The violence had been swift and bloody.

Possession was his lifeblood.

Batman hooked his grapple line over to the next building and flew. His cape spread out like wings, an Angel of Death over a city that needed a protector.

The Mission drove him, night after night, despite the Government’s wariness of costumed heroes.

 _Damn the Government. Busybodies. Always poking their noses in where they don’t belong._

He continued to fly, watchful and vigilant. He kept his heart locked away because he needed Strength. He needed Purpose.

_**My** city!_

He growled as a mugger slinked out from the shadows, lunging at an unwary businessman who reeled in shock as a knife slashed toward his face. 

The knife clattered to the pavement, the mugger yelping in pain as the batarang clanged against the lamppost.

No matter what century, the darkness of men’s hearts remained. 

The mugger was knocked out with one blow. “Call the police,” rasped the winged creature of the night to the astonished intended victim before he flew up into the darkness.

A beautiful night, autumn’s chill making the stars shine with crystal-cold clarity. He wrapped the cold around him like his cape.

_‘He dwelt in the Ivory Tower, looking down upon the enchanted city and suffering compassion for his people. The Prince would always protect them…’_

The old tale slipped through the Batman’s mind. He flew over Wayne Tower, over the Wayne Wing of Gotham General Hospital, over the building that housed the Wayne Foundation…

_**My** city!_  



	2. Possession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark’s new knowledge is exhilarating.

_I was feeling  
Small and weak,  
Then he appeared,  
Dark and sleek._

_He took me,  
Hard and strong,  
Joy was mine,  
My heart’s song._

  


**Gavin Rentell  
Rigellian Author   
"My Soul Possessed"   
6,789 B.C.E.**

Clark looked around in fascinated shock. This was the Batcave that the media speculated about! 

A small smile spread across his face as he slowly walked around the Cave, looking in awe at the equipment. The Batplane loomed lean and dark and sleek in its hangar.

 _Like Bruce_ , Clark thought with a chuckle.

Often in his head he would use his Master’s name, and now it looked as if he would have to be adding ‘Batman’ to his repertoire.

He stood before the giant trophies, resolving to research the cases that had involved such items. He wandered over to the computer, careful not to touch anything. He shivered slightly as a cold breeze swept through the Cave. He hugged himself, wishing for that fire he had thought of earlier. 

_It all makes sense. The Batman would need money to have all these gadgets, and Wayne money is certainly plentiful. Batman protects Gotham, and the Waynes have been the guardians of Gotham for generations._

Excitement thrilled through his veins. His wish to meet the Batman had come true!

Clark turned in a full circle, soaking it all in…then stopped.

Bruce had kept this a secret from him. He didn’t want him to know. Didn’t Bruce trust him?

Hurt laced through him. He rubbed his arms as another cold breeze pierced his robe.

Uncertain of what to do, he stared at the blank computer screen.

The roar of a powerful engine snapped him into action. He ran to the stairs, melting back into the shadows. The long, sleek lines of the Batmobile came into view as it emerged from the tunnel. It came to a stop, purring its power through the darkness of the Cave. The engine was cut, silence descending as the door of the car opened.

Out strode the Bat.

Clark was riveted as the black cape swirled around the dread Batman as he stalked to the computer.

The man moved more like a cat than a bat, all lithe, fluid grace underlined with power. Whether as Bruce Wayne or Batman, the man in that cowl would always command.

Batman booted up the computer, a schematic of Gotham flashing on the screen. He tapped the keys, then turned. 

Clark shrank back. He waited with a pounding heart to be discovered, but after five minutes of agonized anticipation he ventured a peek.

The Cave was devoid of the Bat. Puzzled, Clark stepped out form the shadows.

He heard the sound of water running. A…shower?

That made sense. Batman would have to clean up after a hard night of crimefighting.

Clark took the opportunity to hurry back up the steps, hissing as a wave of dizziness hit him. He couldn’t fall! Grimly he clung to the damp wall, then continued on, reaching the clock. Slipping out quietly he closed the case, wincing at the faint jangling sound, but he managed to climb the grand staircase without meeting a curious Alfred. 

_Good, he’s still asleep._

He realized he had to get ready. Bruce would be upstairs soon, expecting his bedslave to fulfill his primary duty. Head awhirl with dizziness and new knowledge, he hurried into the master bedroom, stripping off his robe and kicking off his slippers. Sliding beneath the black silk sheets, he rested his head on the pillow. 

It wasn’t even ten minutes later when Bruce entered the bedroom, still fresh from the shower. There were nights when he said he did a quick work-out after working, therefore the shower was explainable, as there was a shower room off the gymnasium.

Clark knew that he would be looking back over a lot of things and matching those things up, but right now his heart was racing at the thought of having sex with the Batman.

“Good evening, Master.”

Bruce seemed pleased that Clark was awake. “Good evening yourself.” He was charged with energy, and Clark realized why now. No simple work-out could draw that energy out of him, but flying over the rooftops of Gotham would.

“Come to bed, Master,” Clark said softly, holding out his hand.

Bruce was amused at his slave’s forwardness but took the hand and climbed into the bed, leaning forward into a deep kiss. Clark unbuttoned Bruce’s robe, slipping it off his shoulders and helping him get it off completely. He was being bold and he knew it, but his Master didn’t object.

Clark blew lightly over Bruce’s nipples, delighted at the other man’s shiver. Bruce cupped the back of his head and urged Clark’s head closer, Clark talking the hint and suckling a stiff-peaked nipple. Bruce groaned, holding Clark close as his slave pleasured him.

Clark moved to the other nipple, his hands sliding up Bruce’s back. The scars were completely explainable now. Faint due to the miracle of healing cream, he wondered how vicious they were originally.

Oddly, he felt a rush of protectiveness. Surely Batman didn’t need the protection of a bedslave, but that didn’t matter. If Bruce needed him, he would be there for him…somehow, someway, manacles or not.

_I love you._

He allowed himself the thought as he tenderly slipped his lips along warm skin, mapping every inch of Bruce’s chest, sliding down to smell the muskiness of his groin. His tongue began tasting the column of flesh jutting out from dark curls. Clark hummed softly as he licked and tasted, delighted in Bruce’s squirming. He smiled as his head was pushed down, urging him to do more. Clark didn’t need to be a skilled sex slave to understand what his Master wanted.

He engulfed the pulsing flesh, Bruce’s hips jerking. Clark used his skills and soon had his Master begging for release, Bruce’s fingers entangled in his hair. Bruce uttered a cry and spilled his seed down Clark’s throat, the slave happy that he had pleasured his Master.

_Not to mention the Batman._

The thought hardened him instantly. Cape porn, he groaned, wishing that he could let Bruce know that he knew his secret. Bruce’s fingers were already working his erection, his own seed spilling over his Master’s hand.

“Mmm, eager tonight,” Bruce said in an amused tone.

“Always, Master,” Clark said as he looked up with teasing adoration in his eyes.

Bruce snorted, lightly tugging on Clark’s hair. “Up, Jewel Of My Heart.”

Clark’s heart triphammered. If only that could be true! 

Bruce cleaned them up with the tissues he kept on the nightstand, then Clark curled up around Bruce, nuzzling and nipping. 

“You are frisky tonight.”

Clark was all over his Master, tasting and licking as he wanted all of Bruce. Bruce’s body was responding again until he finally growled, “Turn over.”

Clark excitedly obeyed. He moaned as Bruce prepared him, wanting this so much…

Bruce eased into him, filling Clark with pleasure. His hands caressed Clark’s shoulders, back, and hips, coming to rest on the buttocks that could drive a man crazy.

And that was when Clark sensed a change. From gentle-yet-firm Master, the man taking his pleasure became quiet.

That stillness filled the room, watching, waiting…

The Bat was here.

Excitement ran through Clark’s body as, slowly, the Dark Knight took him, savage yet precise, pleasure humming through him as the rustle of black silk sheets sounded like the long, black cape of the man in the mask.

Clark didn’t fear the Bat, as silent and closed-off as he could be, because the Batman was part of Bruce, the man he loved. The Batman could string him up in the Batcave and have his way with him and Clark would still be happy.

_Maybe he could bend me over the Batmobile._

His cock twitched as Batman made one final thrust, spilling into him with scorching seed, hands gripping his hips so hard that bruises would form. Clark came an instant later, both men panting as Bruce collapsed on top of him, his breath tickling Clark’s hair.

Bruce.

The Batman was gone.

“Mmm,” Bruce purred, moving over his slave’s body. He tightened his arms around him, sealing them together. He rested his head on Clark’s shoulder.

Clark’s breathing returned to normal. He relaxed, Bruce’s weight not too uncomfortable.

They remained entwined, then Bruce gently slid out of his slave and said, “Clean us up.”

Clark obeyed, his touch gentle and thorough as he used the washcloth from the bathroom. When he was finished he climbed back into bed, Bruce wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close.

Clark smiled. Bruce was becoming a cuddler more every night. He hoped that the cold metal of his slave jewelry would not rouse Bruce. His Master was already falling asleep.

Clark slipped his arms around Bruce and allowed himself to drift off, too.


	3. Violation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A breach in the sanctuary of Wayne Manor rattles Bruce and Clark.

_The scheming knave  
Breached the wall,  
Entering into  
The Prince’s Hall._

He took his slave,  
And demanded gold,  
The Prince railed  
Against an act so bold.

The slave begged mercy,  
But the knave simply sneered,  
He took what he wanted,  
Now hated and feared.

But the Prince struck  
And drove off the knave,  
And then wailed  
As he discovered his slave.

  
He tended his Prize,  
And never again,  
Let a knave breach  
His palace  
With a heart  
Filled with malice.  


  


**J.M. Simon  
  
"Enchanted Fairy Tales"  
  
1963 C.E.**

The top-to-bottom cleaning Alfred had promised began. A full complement of cleaning personnel arrived at the Manor on a crisp autumn day. Alfred was in his glory, giving marching orders to the head of the crew, who took no offense. Free as he was, Aaron Breck was accustomed to slaves of the wealthy looking out for their Masters and in charge of such projects.

The free crew was efficient, working under Alfred’s direction with no complaints. Clark helped, too, but wore the dark glasses. Bruce wanted him partially Veiled, and the glasses were a good compromise.

Clark worked with one of the cleaning women in the library, a cheerful girl in her early twenties. She pushed a lock of light-brown hair back from her forehead and grinned. “Lots of ornate gimcrackery in here.”

Clark answered with a grin of his own. “I guess a house hundreds of years old will accumulate a lot of gimcrackery.”

She laughed. “You’re right.” She looked at the portrait over the fireplace. “Are they the Lord and Lady of the Manor?”

“Yes.” Clark looked at the handsome couple. Thomas Wayne had Bruce’s dark good looks, his eyes a dark-blue. His hand rested on the shoulder of the lovely woman seated in the chair, her dark hair shoulder-length and perfectly-coiffed. A string of lustrous pearls set off her dark-blue dress. The clothing spoke of quiet elegance, as tasteful as the room’s furnishings. They both had slight smiles, also bespeaking quiet elegance and simplicity.

The child in the picture always fascinated Clark, giving him a window into the happy childhood of Bruce before tragedy had struck.

The cleaning girl stood next to Clark, absorbed in contemplating the painting. Her shoulder brushed against his as she moved her hand to adjust her kerchief.

“Hey!”

Clark and the girl turned. A young man in cleaning overalls stood in the doorway, a scowl on his face.

“Carl, what’s the matter?”

“Why are you cozying up to this whore, Angie?”

“What are you talking about?”

Carl strode in, fury in his voice as he roughly grabbed Angie’s arm. “I saw you brushin’ up against this whore. Where’s your dignity? Dontcha know he spreads his legs on command? _Don’t_ act like one of _them!”_ He shook Angie, who protested, “You’re hurting me!”

Clark started to move but restrained himself, vividly remembering the rule about touching freemen and the punishment he would receive. He winced as a sharp pain lanced through his head.

“No girl of mine is gonna act like a filthy slave!”

Angie wrenched free. “I’m no slave, but I won’t be your girl, either, if you keep acting like this!”

Carl glared at the defiant woman, then turned on Clark. “You filthy whore!” He shoved Clark hard. “Sniffin’ around a freewoman! I oughtta kick your fairy ass!”

“Carl, leave him alone!”

That egged Carl on. He slapped Clark across the face, grabbing a fistful of hair and sneering, “If I did guys I’d have you on our knees right now suckin’ me off!” His sneer turned into an ugly grin. “Though what the fuck?” 

Every nerve in Clark’s body screamed resistance, his head throbbing but he clenched his fists at his sides. He wouldn’t disgrace his Master again.

He opened his mouth to call for help when Carl pressed his lips to his, his tongue snaking in. Choking, Clark moaned as he was slammed against the wall, his glasses falling off. Angie gasped at the un-Veiling.

Carl broke off the kiss, then hit Clark across the mouth, splitting his lip. Dazed, Clark began to slide down the wall as Carl hit him again, pain blossoming in his right eye.

Angie shouted, “Stop it, Carl! He didn’t _do_ anything!”

Carl grabbed Clark’s shirt and ripped it, then hit him again.

The cold metal of Clark’s manacles and collar burned against his skin. He was stunned at how quickly he had ended up in this mess. He wound up on the floor, gasping as he was kicked in the ribs.

“Carl! Stop it!”

Aaron Breck was standing in t he doorway, Angie at his side. Carl backed off, Clark clutching his ribs. He grabbed his glasses and shakily put them back on, starkly aware that he was un-Veiled.

Aaron strode in and grabbed Carl’s shirt. “Are you fuckin’ crazy? That’s Lord Wayne’s personal Prize!”

Carl spat, “He’s just a whore!” 

“Yeah, but he’s _Bruce Wayne’s_ whore!”

Carl’s look of contempt seared through Clark, but he kept silent, trying to breathe despite the sharp pain in his side. He hoped his ribs weren’t broken. Bruce would be furious.

“You’ve put me in a helluva pickle, Winslow,” Aaron growled. 

“You’re deep in the brine,” said a cold voice from the doorway.

Clark winced as he saw Bruce standing in the doorway looking like the Bat. He strode in, bending down to brush the hair out of Clark’s eyes. Clark was glad of the dark glasses to hide his shame. Somehow he had messed up, letting things get out of control.

Bruce’s face darkened as he touched the bleeding lip, his gaze sliding to the torn shirt.

“Did he violate you?” he asked in a low tone.

Clark stammered, “M…Mouth only.”

A low growl escaped Bruce. He touched the swollen mouth, then grasped Clark’s manacled wrist and helped him up, tugging him to follow.

The Lord of the Manor stood in front of Aaron, Carl and Angie while holding his slave’s arm. Alfred was standing quietly in the doorway.

“You laid hands upon my slave.”

Carl tilted his chin up, defiance sparking from his eyes. “That whore touched my Angie.”

“Is that true, my Prize?”

Clark tried to ignore the throbbing in his eye. Maybe he should concentrate on his screaming ribs instead. Either way, he was in for a world of hurt.

“No, Master.” His voice was soft but firm. “The young lady accidentally brushed against me. Neither one of us was improper.” He felt the urge to say, “Honor Served,” but of course that was reserved for gentlemen. Slaves had no honor.

“He’s lying,” Carl spat.

“I don’t think so.” Bruce’s fury was barely contained.

“You’d take the word of a slave over a freeman?” 

“My slave doesn’t lie, Mr. Winslow.”

Carl looked ready to spew more venom, but Aaron grabbed his arm.

“Lord Wayne, I apologize for the action of my misguided employee. There will be no bill for the service today.”

Bruce held up his hand. “You will be paid. Your people have done their usual fine job. However, you will fire this…person…but give him proper references so that he will not go away with a feeling of…persecution.”

Bruce never looked more regal as he did now, Clark thought in awe. Everyone in the room instinctively deferred to him, even Carl starting to back down.

“Yes, m’lord,” Aaron said. “Winslow, come by my office tomorrow for your final paycheck and those references.”

Carl glared at Aaron, then threw a murderous look at Clark. Bruce’s own expression was thunderous.

“Mr. Winslow, if you ever lay hands upon my slave again, you will regret it. You violated my property, and I do not take such a violation lightly.” Bruce’s dark-blue eyes glittered. “Now remove yourself from my home.”

Carl flung one last look of defiance, then turned on his heel and stalked out. Angie looked at him go with a mixture of regret and relief.

“Continue with your cleaning, Mr. Breck.”

“Yes, Lord Wayne.”

As Aaron and Angie left the room, Alfred entered. “Sir, I can attend to Clark.”

“Thank you, Alfred, but I will do so.” Bruce tugged and Clark followed him upstairs to the bedroom. 

Bruce directed Clark to sit on the bed. He disappeared into the bathroom, re-emerging with a bowl of water, a washcloth, and bandages. Clark looked down ruefully at the bruises on his chest. He was certain that his face was a mess.

Bruce’s touch was gentle, washing away the blood on Clark’s lip. He cleaned the scratches on his slave’s chest, getting out the healing cream. He applied it to the cuts, then bandaged the wounds. He checked the ribs, satisfied they weren’t broken, and wrapped them tightly.

Clark studied his Master, glad of the dark glasses hiding his scrutiny. 

Bruce had been wearing his Lord of the Manor face while dealing with the incident. Now he was grim but had shed his haughty demeanor.

“Mr. Breck called you ‘Lord Wayne’.”

“It’s an honorific, like ‘Prince of Gotham’.” Bruce gently cleaned a cut on Clark’s cheek. “Men of Aaron Breck’s class served my ancestors well here in America. Despite the American tradition of no royalty, we’ve never lacked for class distinctions. My family settled in Gotham, as you know, and along with the Braddock family and a few others, we established Gotham as our fiefdom. That tradition continued through the modern era in different forms, but men such as Breck remember their family’s fealty to mine and use the term without thinking.”

Bruce removed Clark’s glasses. He winced at the black eye, a finger gently tracing the bruises. “I should have protected you, at least in my own home!”

Clark allowed himself the boldness of curling his fingers around Bruce’s hand. “You shouldn’t feel guilty, Master. You always protect me.”

_From so much out there._

“Life is precarious even for the best-protected of slaves, Clark.” Bruce squeezed his hand, then released it. He cupped Clark’s bruised cheek. “Out there, people can hurt you. Some churl with no honor could have you up against the wall or over a table in the space of seconds, and you couldn’t do a thing about it except part your legs or open your mouth and let him in.”

Clark shivered. “I know.” He closed his eyes and nuzzled against Bruce’s hand, then slid off the bed and to his knees, startling Bruce. “I want only you inside me, Master.”

Bruce started down at his slave. Clark was in the proper position of submission: legs spread, wrists crossed behind his back, but his face was tilted upward, his face bruised, his shirt torn…ready…waiting…wanting.

Clark moaned as Bruce caressed his face. “Please, Master,” he begged, brushing his cheek against Bruce’s groin. His body shivered again as he breathed in Bruce’s scent.

Bruce grabbed his hair, pressing his face directly into his crotch, his excitement already evident. Bruce then pulled his head back by the hair and Clark gazed up, his own groin throbbing.

_Take me, Master. Make me forget anyone else. Take away their taste with yours._

Recent nightmarish memories skittered around the edges of his mind and Clark’s eyes closed as his Master thrust into his mouth. He sucked, tasted and nibbled, the musky aroused scent of Bruce filling him with his own ardor. Bruce filled him, his hips thrusting and fingers till entangled in his slave’s hair. 

_Please make me feel safe again._

The musk grew stronger, Clark sucking harder, wanting all of Bruce, wanting Bruce to fill him, possess him… 

_I love you_ , he thought as with a final growl and thrust, Bruce’s seed spilled down his throat, his own body jerking with his own orgasm.

As Bruce slipped out of his mouth, Clark rested his head against his Master’s thigh, Bruce carding his fingers through sweat-dampened hair.

_Safe again._


	4. Domination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Batman stalks Gotham, determined to re-assert his claim of dominance over his city…and his slave.

_In the castle  
By-the-sea,  
My heart  
Spoke to me._

_I gave  
My  
Soul and bone,  
To the one  
Who said,  
"Mine to own."_

  


**Janice Greenleaf Whittier  
"Nature’s Gold And Other Poems"   
2007 C.E.**

Bruce ordered Clark upstairs as evening fell. The cleaning was done despite the earlier incident. Everything sparkled, glittered, and gleamed, including his slave.

Clark had needed Bruce to take him, to make him feel safe again. 

Bruce needed more. _He_ didn’t feel safe. That…that _cretin_ who had violated Clark had invaded the sanctuary of Wayne Manor. It made him so angry that he couldn’t see straight.

He took a deep breath.

_Control the anger._

Anger was useful, but only if it could be tightly-controlled. The Batman was all controlled anger.

He smiled a Bat smile.

& & & & & &

Bruce pushed the bedroom door open. Clark was just coming out of the bathroom. He was wearing a bright blue robe and began to untie the sash, then stopped and waited for orders.

“Proceed,” Bruce said with a smile.

Clark obeyed, untying the sash and slipping the robe off, blushing slightly at his Master’s frank gaze. He began to slide to his knees when Bruce stopped forward, grasping Clark’s arms and pushing them behind his back while he kissed him deeply.

Bruce’s other hand rested on Clark’s bandaged chest. “To bed on your stomach, unless…” he whispered.

“I’m fine.”

Bruce released him and Clark sat on the bed, rolling over to stretch out on black silk. He waited patiently as was a slave’s nature, then jumped as Bruce took his right arm and tied it to the bedpost with a length of chain.

“M…Master?”

“Shh, my Prize.” Bruce chained the other arm, then lightly caressed Clark’s back, sliding his hand down the spine until he reached the curve of the buttocks. “Something a little different tonight.” He smiled at the shiver that ran through Clark’s body. “You’ll be open and ready for me when I return.” He pulled apart Clark’s legs, attaching ankle manacles with chains as he tied them to the bedposts.

Bruce admired his handiwork. His beautiful slave was stretched out on his stomach, spread-eagled and awaiting his Master’s pleasure. A charge of electricity went through him, and for a moment he was tempted to take what was his right now but the whisper-silk of the Bat lured him away. He leaned down and whispered, “If you need anything, call on Alfred. He’ll leave his door open and I’ll leave this door open, too.” Bruce nuzzled his slave’s neck right above his sparkling collar. “But you will be open and ready for me, as you should be.” His breath tickled Clark’s ear. “Always, whether in day or night, in private or public.” Another shiver. Bruce smiled as he withdrew, then paused. He bent down and kissed a smooth buttock in promise, benediction…or possession?

He left the room, the shadow of the Bat looming.

& & & & & &

Batman roamed the rooftops, vigilant and powerful. He would re-establish dominance over Gotham, a city of shadows and danger.

He needed that claiming. His sanctuary, Wayne Manor, had been violated this day. He would take back his safety for him and his slave.

Anger swept over him as he thought of his slave’s violation. Clark felt safe at the Manor, and now that safety had been violated.

Batman closed his fist. He would claim sanctuary again, just as he would claim his slave. Possess him, take him, re-claim his property and make him immutably his.

He growled as he saw a pair of muggers set on a lone victim, swooping down to batter the first, the second one fleeing. He trussed up the first mugger and pursued the second, who was quick and desperate. The second mugger disappeared into Knickerbocker Hall.

Batman entered the Hall through a skylight, wrinkling his nose at the overwhelming stench of unwashed bodies and human waste. Unlike the elegantly-appointed business rooms of nearby Braddock Hall, this cavernous room held the living items for the weekly bazaars and other events. Every week, slaves were caged here before being cleaned for public exhibit and sale. During the annual Great Auction in July, the Hall’s storage area was packed to bursting with Human goods.

This weekly consignment of slaves were much less in number, but there were approximately a half-dozen cages filled. Most of the slaves were trying to get some sleep, one young man protectively holding a younger woman close to him as they slept, another woman holding a girl in her early twenties in a desperate grip as they slumbered. All were naked without even a scrap of cloth to cover themselves.

Batman frowned. Could his slave have been held at one time in this Hall? No, his status as a virgin would have kept him in a special cage, away from jeering guards and slavers.

A movement attracted his attention. He silently flew down, knocking the mugger unconscious. He scooped him up in a fireman’s carry and grappled up to the rafters. He would be up and out the skylight before anyone knew he’d been there.

“Time for some fun, whores.”

Batman looked down. He saw three large men dressed in guards’ uniforms. All three were grinning like malevolent idiots.

Batman shoved the trussed mugger up through the skylight and onto the roof. 

The biggest guard had a gap-toothed grin and a dark beard. He opened a cage and pulled out the woman who had held the young girl close to her, yanking her by her hair. He pushed her to her knees while he freed his cock from his pants, pushing her head close.

“Do what you do best, whore.”

The woman gagged as the thick cock rammed into her mouth. As the leader took his pleasure, the second guard grabbed a young, blond-haired man from the next cage, tearing him away from the arms of the young woman he’d been cradling, and threw him onto his back, the third guard grabbing the slave’s manacled wrists.

“Hold ‘im down tight,” said the second man, yanking the slave’s legs apart and positioning himself. 

“Please, leave us alone!” begged the girl in the first cage. “We’ll be sold off separately tomorrow. Give us some peace!”

The guards laughed.

Suddenly a dark shadow plunged down, knocking the second guard to the floor. The third man released the slave’s wrists in surprise.

“Batman!”

The voice was low and rasping. “Stop violating these slaves.”

The first guard smirked. His hand was in the female slave’s hair as he slowly thrust his hips, pushing his cock deeper into her mouth. “Why do you care if we fuck these whores? It’s not like we’re raping them.” His dark eyes glittered.

“No, but you are violating property.” Batman cocked his head. “Are their Masters aware that you’re soiling their goods?”

“If they didn’t want these pieces of ass touched, they wouldn’t leave them in the slave pens.” The guard shrugged. “If they were virgins they’d be in special lock-up. Although…” he laughed “…there’s always a way to enjoy a whore without taking their virginity below the waist.” He looked down with a leer.

“So you despoil virgins here as well?”

“Sure. There was a real pretty one caged a few months ago that we still managed to have fun with. He had a very talented mouth, courtesy of the Rigellian slavers who originally sold him to Bracken. Yeah, he was very talented…”

The guard yelped as he was knocked down, the slave releasing his cock and scrambling back into the cage, coughing with a hollow sound as she hugged the sobbing girl 

Batman stood over the stunned guard. “You’ve had your pleasure for tonight. I suggest you do your jobs instead of despoiling the merchandise.”

Batman turned and shut the cage door, his gaze on the woman who had been violated, and he removed something from the folds of his cape and unobstrusively dropped it to the floor, the young girl snatching it up, hidden from view by his cape. He went to the next cage and did the same thing, none of the guards seeing anything, and then he was gone in a sweep of cape, leaving behind equally-astonished guards and slaves.

& & & & & &

Commissioner James Gordon finished his report, hitting the ‘Send’ key as he closed out the word processing option. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. It had been a long night.

He looked at the gold-framed holographs on his desk. As always, he felt a mixture of sadness and affection as he looked at the picture of his late wife.

The next holograph was of his daughter Barbara. His bright young girl was a star gymnast preparing for the Olympic trials. Pride welled in his chest as he looked at the smiling girl.

A movement by the window caught his eye. At the same moment he heard a commotion downstairs.

The window opened, the Batman gliding in.

“Commissioner.”

“Batman.” He cocked his head. “I take it that commotion is courtesy of you?” 

“Two muggers neatly trussed on the front steps.”

“Thank you.” Batman inclined his head in acknowledgement, but he remained instead of leaving. “Is there something else?”

The office was dark except for the small circle of light from the lamp on Jim’s desk. It suited the Dark Knight well.

“I may have overstepped my bounds tonight.”

“Oh?” Jim was not particularly surprised to hear it. The Batman was not above certain tactics in his war against crime, but Jim tended to look the other way at excessive bruises or a few broken bones. This city was a corrupt cesspool, and if a vigilante like Batman could get some of the scum off the streets to help his overworked police department, what of it? 

“I roughed up some guards at the slave pens.” His voice held no regret. “They were rap…violating property.”

“Ah.” If Batman had been talking about freemen, the world would have been ‘rape’, though Jim had noticed the near-slip of the tongue. “Violating another man’s property is a criminal offense. Do you wish to charge them?” 

The Dark Avenger shook his head. “As the lead guard said if the owners wanted untouched goods, they wouldn’t leave them in the pens. Everyone knows the guards take their fill. Still, there should be standards.”

Jim smiled. “Are you an abolitionist, Batman?”

A small smile. “Hardly. But Gotham could improve her reputation if the rampant violations could be stopped, or at least lessened.” A deep breath. “The slaves could be left in peace.”

Jim nodded. “I could assign police details, but I’m shorthanded. I’ll talk to the owners of Knickerbocker Hall. Of course, they may not care about changing it, but if they do, I know a good security company.” 

“Thank you, Commissioner.”

Before Jim had a chance to answer, Batman was out the window and disappearing into the night.

He sighed. The man didn’t like hanging around like his namesake.

Jim returned to his desk, his gaze falling on the picture of his daughter. She was a beautiful young girl, especially with that luxuriant-red hair…he shuddered at the thought of what she would go through if she were manacled.

Yes, it wouldn’t hurt to push for some new security over at Knickerbocker Hall.

& & & & & &

The Hall was quiet and dark, the guards gone. While the slaves in the other cages slept, the slaves in the two cages that contained the victims of the violations were quietly partaking of the water bottles the Batman had left them. 

A small gesture, but he had noticed the brackish water in their bowls. He had slipped each cage a bottle of the purest spring water that tasted like nirvana.

For the first time in a long time, they felt Human.

& & & & & &

“I’m here, my Prize.”

Clark jumped at the voice in his ear. Blinking, he turned his head.

“M…Master?”

“Yes.” Bruce rubbed his shoulder, his breath tickling Clark’s ear. “Here to take what is mine.”

Clark shivered at the words. He had slept most of the evening adjusting to his chained position. Bruce had not pulled the chains too tight so he had a little wiggle room, but his legs were spread wide, a frisson of excitement skittering through his groin.

His Master’s fingers combed through his hair, sliding down to caress his face. He impulsively kissed his fingers, hopeful that his boldness would be accepted. Bruce’s other hand caressing his back indicated his approval.

Clark shivered again as Bruce began rubbing his buttocks. He rubbed his face into the pillows, eager to please his Master. He wanted to serve this man in the only way he could.

_My body is yours._

Bruce slipped his fingers to stroke the inside of Clark’s thighs.

_My heart is yours._

Clark moaned softly as a finger entered him, teasing and playing. It was what he had dreamed about while waiting for his Master to return. The quiet had soothed his soul. Stretched out on his stomach and chained to the bed, open and ready, he had felt a peace that he supposed some might find odd, yet made perfect sense to him.

He loved Bruce. Bruce was his Master, kind and gentle, but expecting obedience. Unless Clark was willing to challenge that expectation, he would have to obey.

And there had been the dreams. Tonight he had suffered at the hands of the Knickerbocker Hall guards, dreams he couldn’t quite remember as he awoke in a cold sweat with a pounding heart, but he remembered enough fragments to realize how lucky he was.

Clark craved security, and despite the incident earlier that day, he knew he had safety here at Wayne Manor.

Now his body craved Bruce, who was straddling him and whispering, “No one shall ever touch you again.” His cock nudged Clark’s buttocks as Bruce caressed the creamy cheeks, pulling them apart and easing in, claiming what was his. “No one…” he thrust “…shall ever…” Clark moaned at another thrust “…violate you…” deep, hard stroke “…again.”

Chains rattled as Clark’s limbs moved, his body pushing back to urge Bruce deeper. In this moonlit bedroom in a mansion high on a cliff by the sea, he gave himself up to love and possession.

 _“Mine_ ,” Bruce growled.

“Yes,” Clark breathed, crying out with pleasure as the pain of his past was driven away for one perfect moment.

Possession by moonlight.

Possession by Bruce.


	5. Conventional Wisdom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce attends the National Abolitionist Society Convention in Gotham City.

_"Slavery is inherently unfair.  
Why should some of us go through this life  
literally unfettered while others among us  
are born to the manacle and chain?"_

  


**"The Moral Case For Abolitionism"  
Lecture given by Martha Clark Kent   
Convention of   
The National Abolitionist Society   
Topeka, Kansas   
June 18, 2246 C.E.**

The Gotham Conference Center was bustling with activity. Convention members arrived from the nearby hotels and a ring of placard-carrying protesters marched outside the entrance in a circle. The signs read, **Abos Go Home!, Slavery Forever!,** and **Slavery = Freedom!**

Bruce slipped by the protesters, his glasses and dark-red hair helping to disguise him. It wouldn’t do for Bruce Wayne to be seen at a conference of the National Abolitionist Society. He picked up his badge (that read Sean Kennedy) at a registration table in the lobby. A radio softly played, an announcer saying, _“Congress will begin debate of the Branding Bill this afternoon. The President is also sending a new tax bill to the Hill…”_

He leafed through the three-day agenda, certain lecture and workshop topics standing out. He perused today’s agenda: the opening remarks by Cousin Kathy at 9:00, then:

**10:00 The Origins Of Modern Slavery  
11:00 The Moral Case For Abolitionism  
12:00 Lunch  
1:00 A Report On The Future Compulsory Branding Law  
2:00 An Overview Of Slavery Across The Empire  
3:00 The Code of Honor: How The Ruling Classes Abide By It In Relation To Slavery **

**Tuesday’s schedule:**

**9:00 A Report By The Chapters On Current Progress  
10:00-12:00 A Workshop On Political Activism  
12:00 Lunch  
1:00 The Economic Foundations Of Slavery  
2:00 What We Can Learn From Past Abolitionist Movements  
3:00 How To Legally Intervene In Cases Of Slave Abuse**

There was a special evening lecture:

**8:00-10:00 The Pleasure Slave’s Unique Status In The Slave World**

**Wednesday’s schedule:**

**9:00 Depiction Of Slavery In Popular Culture  
10:00 How To Cultivate Freemen Contacts  
11:00 The Responsibilities Of Ownership  
12:00 Lunch  
1:00-3:00 The Psychological Underpinnings Of The Master/Slave Dynamic  
3:00 Wrap-Up**

It was a full and interesting schedule. Bruce marked the lectures of special interest, and he intended to at least partially attend the rest.

Bruce took a seat in the back of the main auditorium. While no event was compulsory, most attendees made sure to show up at the opening session. People filed in, chatting in pairs and groups or quiet singles such as himself. 

Everyone settled down as 9:00 hit on the clock. Kathy came out to the podium, looking radiant in a bright yellow dress with a shimmering scarlet scarf dashingly tossed around her neck. A scarlet maple leaf pin glittered as it held one end of the scarf in place. Long, blue-black hair cascaded to her shoulders as hazel eyes surveyed the audience.

“Welcome, fellow crusaders!” Applause. “Gotham City, home of the rebel and iconoclast, welcomes you with open arms.” More applause. “We are fighting the good fight, my friends. Once scorned as a fringe movement of wackos and granola-crunchers, we have been quietly gaining mainstream acceptance and adherents.”

Bruce wondered if that was 100% true. The abolitionist movement was still considered by many to be on the fringes, but his cousin was correct in that the movement had grown stronger. They were fighting for complete abolition as the ultimate goal, but in the meantime were pushing for laws for slave health and welfare.

While Kathy ran down the many themes of the conference, Bruce was grateful that she has procured his false badge. She understood the need for secrecy but had been thrilled that he wanted to attend at all. 

She had also arranged a meeting with one of the most prominent speakers.

The welcome speech ended at 9:40 and refreshments were served, and the exhibition hall was opened. Bruce sipped Earl Grey tea and wandered into the hall.

Each chapter had its own booth, some more elaborate than others. There were booths representing the international societies as well. Bruce picked up brochures and came upon displays that offered practical advice on political activism. There were also items for sale to fund the movement: buttons, pins, mugs, keychains, jewelry, T-shirts and other goods to entice the faithful.

Bruce also knew that the major source of funding were rich supporters of the cause. Cultivating the wealthy willing to break ranks with their class and support a cause that was anathema to it, skilled crusaders were able to keep a flow of money coming from people deemed to be eccentrics, but it was a constant battle. 

Bruce paused as he saw a tall, thin gentleman of about fifty talking to a woman in her booth. He was dressed in expensive but casual clothes, his silver hair thick and slightly unruly.

Bruce hoped his disguise worked. In addition to his glasses and red hair, he had used make-up to alter his features just enough to hide Bruce Wayne, he hoped.

He recognized the man: Andrew Carver, descended from a family with nearly as much prestige as his own.

Now he was disgraced.

Bruce watched as Andrew continued his conversation. Little surprise that he was comfortable here. He openly supported abolition, also no surprise as he didn’t hide the fact the he was in love with his pleasure slave.

Bruce always felt unease around Andrew but never shunned him. He walked to the empty booth next to the one where Andrew was standing and pretended interest in its literature.

“So glad to see you here, Mr. Carver.”

“You know the Cause is near and dear to my heart.”

The woman smiled. “You’re a brave man, sir.”

Andrew waved his hand negligently. “Oh, when you love someone, it’s easy.” 

Bruce doubted that but remained silent.

“So, I hear that Kathy Kane considers you a pioneer.”

“Why, I suppose I am.” Andrew beamed. “I’m proud to be part of this movement.” 

The woman assigned to the booth arrived and Bruce got into a short conversation with her. By the time he finished, Andrew had moved on to another aisle. 

Bruce knew that Society had cut Andrew Carver dead. He was no longer invited to any of the social events of the season and was referred to in mocking terms by his peers, and those who were not. The stock of his family’s company had plummeted, forcing his ouster from the Board of Directors, and now the only income he had was from the trust fund his parents had set up for him at birth.

All for the crime of falling in love with a slave.

Bruce tried not to ponder too deeply about Andrew’s situation, slipping into the first lecture, which had already started. 

He let his mind drift, knowing quite a bit already about the origins of modern slavery. He was more interested in the second lecture for several reasons.

Bruce moved to the next room, which was quickly filling up. Three different conference rooms had been designated for lectures. Each one had equipment for visual and aural presentations. Changing rooms had been proposed to give subsequent lecturers time to set up, and to give people a change of scenery as all the lectures owned their timeslots without competing talks.

Bruce settled in the middle of the room on the end of the aisle. As people still came in, he called home, refraining from using names and was satisfied that all was well.

The lecturer stepped to the podium under the lights, a peaches-and-cream complexion and warm smile endearing Martha Clark Kent to the crowd. Green eyes sparkled behind gold-rimmed glasses, and if Bruce hadn’t known she was already in her mid-fifties, he would have thought her to be about fifteen years younger.

“Welcome, my friends. Today we will be discussing ‘The Moral Case For Abolitionism’, and so to begin…”

Martha launched into a passionate argument for the abolition of slavery, the power of her words making Bruce increasingly uncomfortable.

“Why should one group of people be subjected to the horror and indignities of slavery on a daily basis simply because they were born to it? Why should they be sold like furniture, their families torn apart, their lives changed on the whims of freemen?

“Slaves must endure humiliation, abuse, and rape as the norm. And let us not kid ourselves! Despite the legal term of ‘violation’, when a freeman takes a slave sexually, it’s rape.”

Murmurs went up in the crowd. Bruce surmised that it was mostly supportive.

A hand shot up. “Ms. Kent, are you talking about when a freeman assaults a slave without the Master’s permission, or whenever a Master takes a slave he owns to bed?”

Bruce felt a coldness creep along his bones as he waited for the answer.

“Good question.” Martha rested her elbows on the lectern. “I don’t want to go into the particulars of legitimate owners and their slaves, as that can be covered better in the pleasure slave lecture. However, let’s look at our current legality: a slave who is sexually assaulted by a freeman not the owner is not classified as a rape victim under the law. Instead, they are property whom have been ‘violated’, an affront to their owners.” 

Bruce thought of Clark and his vulnerability and resolved to keep a closer eye on him off the estate.

“The moral question here is should we be treating fellow human beings worse than we would treat a cat or a dog? Should we be buying and selling them like inanimate objects simply because it’s what we do? How can we sleep at night knowing certain people are condemned to lives of perpetual bondage simply as an accident of birth?”

Another hand went up and Martha acknowledged its owner.

“Ms. Kent, what about the religious underpinnings of the slavery question?”

“What specifics?”

“Well, many mainstream religions firmly believe in slavery. They say it’s ordained by God.”

“Ah, yes, the Bible argument.” Martha straightened up and gripped the lectern. “Well, we don’t stone adulterers anymore, luckily for us (laughter). A lot of religionists like the certainty of the places they set up for people: women be submissive, people remain virgins until marriage, gays be scorned and hated, slaves be slaves and freemen be freemen.” Martha looked slightly amused. “Believe me, Kansas has its share of fundamentalists. It always has. We, sad to say, contain the headquarters of the Church of the Word, that estimable organization that pickets gay and slave funerals, calling both groups abominations.”

“I thought that fundamentalists supported slavery?”

“Most do. This particular sect hates gay sex so much that they hate the slaves who provide those services.” Martha’s tone grew wry. “Of course they don’t blame the freemen. They consider slaves to be ‘tools of the devil’ and because our society condones the art of the pleasure slave, we’re all going to burn in hell.” Once more wry, she said, “Trust me, if we as a society burn in hell, it won’t be because some freeman wants to bed his pleasure slave for a night.” Laughter rippled through the audience. “But wacko sects aside, the mainstream religions do back the practice of slavery. It’s up to us to prove them wrong.”

The conversation continued, lively and stimulating, and after the lecture Bruce approached Martha.

“Ms. Kent?”

“Yes?” Martha turned.

“My name is Sean Kennedy.” Bruce held out his hand. “I’d like to discuss some of the issues you brought up over lunch.”

“Mr. Kennedy!” Martha’s eyes lit up. “Kathy Kane spoke to me about you.” She shook his hand. “And I’d love to have lunch with you, but today I must attend a luncheon for the chapter heads.” Her green eyes sparkled. “Could you meet me in the lobby tomorrow at 11:45? I’m not the 10:00 lecturer so I can slip out easily.”

“I’d be delighted.”

“Excellent. I’ll see you then.”

Bruce watched her leave, then walked a few blocks to a pizza joint he liked to frequent when he was in town, confident that his disguise was suiting him well.

He sat by the window, watching the good citizens of Gotham City go about their business, reviewing what he had learned today. He checked the schedule. He definitely wanted to attend the lecture that was scheduled right after lunch.

After lunch he went to his rental car in the conference center parking garage and took out a cloth bag. He walked into the center via a side door, down a maintenance corridor and into a little-used closet after picking the lock. He artfully hid the bag and slipped out.

One never knew when help would be needed.

& & & & & &

The 1:00 lecture was filling up fast. Bruce noticed Andrew sitting a few rows in front of him.

The lecturer was Kathy. She opened the talk with, “Well, leave it to Congress to eff things up.” Laughter erupted in the crowd. “We want laws to be enacted to protect slaves from cruel and capricious Masters until the day we can abolish the institution, but now a bill is coming up that will make it compulsory to brand slaves.” A murmur of disgust went up, and Bruce felt queasy. “As you know, it has always been left up to the Masters whether to brand or not. Most Masters don’t employ this archaic practice for a myriad of reasons. Some don’t do it for humane reasons, but most simply dislike scarring property.”

Bruce briefly closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see Clark’s perfect flesh scarred...for both reasons.

“We have entered into an unholy alliance with several prominent slaveowners to stop this bill. Unfortunately, that puts us in an ironic position of campaigning against the control of slaveowners. A bad precedent, but one I and many others are willing to risk.” Kathy signaled for the lights to be dimmed. “Branding is a barbaric practice. Every time a slave is sold, a new brand can be applied. Slaves who aren’t classified as bedwarmers can end up pretty scarred, though under the new law pleasure slaves will be branded as well.”

A screen lit up behind Kathy and she moved off the podium to the side.

“Not only can a slave be scarred, but the process is cruel. The usual spot for branding is the left inner thigh, and when too many brands make that a mess, move on to other parts of the body.”

The video started. Gloved hands grabbed a naked slave’s leg, pulling it so that the inner thigh was exposed. Bruce noticed how pretty the young man was, dark-haired and blue-eyed…

A red-hot poker entered camera range, glowing with its heat. Another gloved freeman held the slave as the poker was pressed to his thigh, a scream of pain piercing the audience. He writhed as smoke began to rise from smooth flesh.

Bruce clutched his datapad with white-knuckled fingers. He had heard about brandings, of course, and knew what the procedure was, but he had never witnessed one before.

The brand was pulled away, bits of flesh coming with it, and the black/red marking was angry on pale flesh. The slave’s moans were loud in the silence of the room.

“The brand is cleaned but sometimes still gets infected, leading to the loss of limb and sometimes life.”

The video faded and the lights came up, Kathy returning to the podium. She looked out over the solemn audience.

“This, my friends, is what all slaveowners will be forced to do if this bill passes. Here is what we are doing to prevent that…”

Bruce tried to take notes, his hand trembling. He felt slightly nauseous. The thought of marring Clark’s perfect skin and the pain it would cause him…

…oh, god, and Alfred! Bruce’s hand shook harder. Alfred wasn’t a young man anymore. What if the shock was too much for his heart? Maybe he could get a medical exception, and one for Clark, too, because of his chronic illness.

Bruce stopped his panicked ramblings. The bill hadn’t been passed yet. He immediately decided to donate money to those fighting this law.

& & & & & &

Bruce arrived at the Manor and found Clark and Alfred in the kitchen preparing dinner. He hadn’t told either one of his planned activities at the convention and had removed his make-up. He had simply explained the red highlights in his hair as a test run, Alfred understanding it was for future undercover work and Clark accepting it as well.

Bruce sat at the table and watched them work smoothly together, teasing each other with genuine affection.

No matter what, he would protect them with everything in his power.


	6. Over The Antipasto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Martha discuss their views over lunch.

_Slavery is the moral question  
of our times.  
If you can find it within you  
to donate time or money or both,  
rest assured that you will join  
a Great Crusade  
that History will judge  
in a Shining Light._

  


**Brochure of  
The National Abolitionist Society  
2249 C.E.**

Martha appeared precisely at 11:45, looking very smart in a forest-green suit, her red hair gleaming and hanging loosely to her shoulders. Her color was more of a strawberry red while Bruce’s was dark. He hadn’t spotted any reporters and no one seemed to pointing cellphones or vidcomms at them, so he was happy.

“I know a place only a few blocks away. Do you like Italian?” Bruce asked.

“Love it.”

They stepped out into the crisp October air, walking briskly to _Rossetti’s_. The small family restaurant was just starting to get busy with the lunchtime crowd and they secured a table in the corner by the front window. Both decided to share an antipasto, which Bruce assured Martha was a meal in itself, and a basket of warm, crusty bread was delivered to their table along with a small bowl of dipping oil.

Martha’s green eyes sparkled. “So, Mr. _Kennedy_ , Kathy told me you were interested in this private talk.”

Bruce smiled. He knew that his cousin had told Martha Kent his true identity. She was willing to go along, probably hopeful of converting him to the Cause. 

“Yes, Ms. Kent.”

“Call me Martha, please.”

“Then it’s Sean.”

Amusement curved Martha’s lips. “So, _Sean_ , what is it that you wish to discuss?”

“Oh, naturally, your movement.” Genuine curiosity shone from Bruce’s eyes. “Do you think you have a chance to change such a bedrock foundation of society?”

Martha dipped her bread in the olive oil. “We’re certainly trying. It will never change if we don’t try.”

“True.” Bruce copied her and enjoyed the flavor of the oil-soaked bread. “But no abolition movement has ever been successful in this country. The closest it ever came was during the Civil War.”

“Yes.” Martha took a sip of her Diet Sunpunch. “Yet the abolitionist movement has remained in some form in the nearly four hundred years since then.”

“I know you sell items to raise funds, but your primary backers are among the elite.”

Martha nodded. “There are people who believe that slavery is wrong, some of your class included.”

“I know.” Bruce’s expression was calm. 

“Your family sold off your household slaves years ago, except for your butler Alfred.” Bruce nodded. “I know you employ mostly freemen in your company.”

“All in the core company, actually. When we acquire holdings, then we sometimes acquire slaves.”

“Yes. Except for your butler, you had little personal contact with slaves.” Bruce was impressed by her research on him. “Until you purchased your pleasure slave.”

Bruce felt a blush creep up his face. “Um, yes.”

Martha laughed. “No need for embarrassment, Sean. I’m well aware of a man’s needs. I am married, you know.”

Bruce said nothing. His relationship with Clark was private, and more than just sex. Clark was companionship, sweet and gentle and someone he could talk to about books and other intellectual pursuits.

“So, you decided to take on a pleasure slave after years of not having one.”

“Well, this slave is special.”

“I’m sure.”

There was no judgment in Martha’s voice, for which Bruce was grateful. He was feeling some discomfort as a slaveowner in the presence of this crusader against slavery.

“Yes, my family has a history of involvement in abolitionism.” He grinned. “Cousin Kathy is a passionate advocate.”

Martha smiled. “For which we are grateful.” She finished her bread.

The antipasto arrived, resplendent with provolone cheese, prosciutto, salami, cherry tomatoes, black olives, and olive oil.

“It has a really light flavor, and the olive oil is homemade.”

“Mmm.” Martha was pleased with the taste.

“So have you always been an abolitionist?”

“I’ve always had sympathy for the Cause, but beyond a donation now and then, never really got involved until about four years ago.”

“Things changed for you?”

“I just thought it was time to dedicate myself to a just cause.”

Bruce thought that there was more to it but he refrained from probing further. Everyone had a right to their secrets.

Martha took a bite of salami. “Are you aware of my state’s history as Bleeding Kansas?”

“Yes, I’ve read about it.”

She cut a strip of prosciutto. “In the 1850s, the battleground was joined in Kansas. Northerners, the Free-Staters, who were usually of the abolitionist variety, settled in the state while Southerners, the Border Ruffians, who were of the opposite ilk, settled in the state, too.

“Kansas did bleed, as the drama played out as a precursor to the conflagration to come. Farms were burned, livestock stolen, and settlers murdered. Quantrill and men like him got their guerrilla experience in Kansas.”

“Pretty terrible days.” Bruce speared an olive. “It was an awful, chaotic period.”

“Passions usually evoke chaos.” Martha cocked her head. “Are you one of those who subscribe to the theory that slavery promotes stability?”

Bruce toyed with a slice of provolone. “It does seem to have worked for us in recent centuries. The foundation of slavery is the basis of our economic prosperity. Nations here on Earth share in the wealth, and wars between countries have virtually disappeared.” 

“But is that because of slavery?”

“Slavery has allowed freemen to amass great wealth. Poverty is still with us, but not as bad as in centuries past.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes, then Bruce asked, “Your father is a famous ACLU lawyer?”

Martha smiled. “Yes, Dad took on a lot of high-profile cases. Still does, on occasion. So you see, I come by my activism honestly.” 

Bruce grinned. “Some people consider the ACLU to be pests.”

“And un-American.” Martha ate a fat cherry tomato. “My father needed protection while he worked certain cases. My family got used to being under siege. My husband is handy with a shotgun, which is a good thing.”

Bruce said in a concerned tone, “Unfortunately, it doesn’t surprise me.”

“Yes, abolitionism is not as accepted as it was even in the 19th century.”

“I trust there’s plenty of security for this convention?”

Martha nodded. “Commissioner Gordon has been most cooperative.”

“He’s a good man.”

“Yes, Kathy says he’s increased security at the Knickerbocker Hall slave pens.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

Martha frowned. “Yes, the abuse is quite disgusting. Why owners allow their property to be so manhandled is beyond me, especially when their value could be lessened by damage.”

“I…don’t allow my slaves to be abused.”

“Admirable.” Martha lifted her glass. “Have you ever considered the case for better treatment?”

“Absolutely.” Bruce tore off a piece of bread and dipped it in the oil. “Some of the practices allowed are archaic, not to mention barbaric.”

“We’re working to pass laws to limit Masters’ complete domination over their slaves.” She shrugged. “Until we have complete abolition, we have to work to protect the enslaved as best we can.”

“This new law…”

“…is unfortunate, as I said in the lecture.” Martha sighed. “Congress is poised to pass the law giving them a modicum of control over slaveowners. Sadly, it means more pain for slaves.”

Bruce’s jaw clenched. “I don’t believe in slave mutilation.”

Respect shone in Martha’s eyes. “Good. It’s an abominable practice, and again, reduces value. Unmarked slaves always bring more money.”

Bruce took out his checkbook. “I’d like to make a donation to your organization to fight this.” He wrote a figure and handed her the check. Electronic checks were the norm but paper ones were still honored, especially for such gestures.

Martha took the check, her eyebrow rising as she scanned the amount, a touch of astonishment creeping onto her features She coughed. “Thank you.” She tucked the check into her purse. “Would you consider making a public statement in opposition to the bill?”

Bruce pushed the food around his plate. “If you think it would help if the vote becomes tight, but I prefer to stay in the background.” 

“As you wish.” Martha speared a slice of prosciutto. “Will you be attending the lecture tonight?”

“I might.”

“I warn you, it may be uncomfortable for you as the owner of a pleasure slave.”

“Well, I could say that the entire conference has been, at times, uncomfortable.” He smiled ruefully.

“I look forward to seeing you tonight, then.”

Bruce nodded.

Tonight should prove…interesting.


	7. Kohl, Jewels, And Naked Bodies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce attends the Pleasure Slave lecture.

_"Pleasure slaves are the frosting on our cake."_

  


**Professor Arlen Cox  
"The Art Of The Pleasure Slave"   
2246 C.E.**

The convention center was filled with attendees dressed to the nines. There were cocktails at 6, dinner at 7, and the lecture at 8. People mingled comfortably, discussing their work, the lectures they’d already attended and would attend, and what was sardonically called the Branding Bill.

Bruce drifted around with a drink in his hand and wearing his best tux. Some of the people were dressed as a result of wealth, while others were dressed nicely, but didn’t have jewels dripping off their necks, wrists and ears.

And speaking of what went around people’s necks and wrists, he noticed that none of the waiters and bartenders were slaves. Appropriate for an abolitionist organization.

He drifted out to the lobby, his eyes taking in the protesters demonstrating outside. The signs screamed, **Slavery Forever!, Liberals Go Home!,** and **Freemen Rule!** There were other unsavory slogans that turned Bruce’s stomach. There had been protesters every day, but only a handful. Tonight there were at least fifty.

Security was tight, courtesy of Commissioner Gordon, and Bruce returned to the large conference room that was now a ballroom/banquet hall. 

Kathy winked at him but kept his cover. Martha smiled and then turned back to a blond man about her age, a man Bruce recognized as her husband Jonathan Kent from pictures he had seen of the couple.

He drifted around, picking up snatches of conversation.

“…and he said that he got nauseated watching it.”

“Branding is barbaric!”

“Well, Alice told me that in France they…”

“…keep the slaves under Full Veil, but on Orion, they’re naked all the time.”

“The local TV station broadcast the execution of that runaway slave they caught last week in Alabama.”

“I hate those things, especially when what comes before is more nauseating than the execution itself.” 

“The Gotham P.D. raided that brothel on Blackthorne Street. Ugh, I hate when they pimp the under-legal.”

“Oh, I love the Gotham Art Museum! Sadly, the Amazons In Chains exhibit is beautiful but so frustrating! To think of that proud warrior race reduced to spreading their legs for wealthy parasites or military brass.” 

“There was a slave rebellion on Cetra, I heard…”

“…asked if history would be different if we’d won at Gettysburg, for crying out loud!”

Dinner was served, Bruce making small talk. He enjoyed the food, but was pleased when the banquet was completed and they moved to the auditorium.

The lecture began at 8:05, two professors making the presentation: Professor Ben Kessell of Gotham University and Professor Alan Crandall of Harvard. Kessell was a fortyish man with a shock of brown hair peppered with silver, wire-rimmed glasses, and wore a tuxedo as Crandall did. Crandall was in his thirties, blond, and wore a diamond lapel pin that winked in the auditiorium lighting.

Kessell was at the podium while Crandall stood at the end of the stage. The large vidscreen had been lowered.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to ‘The Pleasure Slave’s Unique Status In The Slave World’.” He rested his elbows on the lectern. “We are all attending this convention for the ultimate purpose of abolishing slavery, but it would behoove us to understand the hold some slaves have on our freemen and how hard Masters will fight to keep them.” An image flashed on the screen. A gorgeous male exotic, eyes kohled and naked body jeweled and painted, drew appreciative gasps from the crowd. “This is what we have to fight.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd. Bruce had to agree. Hadn’t he become attached to his own pleasure slave? He wondered what Clark would look like with kohl around his eyes.

A smile curved Bruce’s lips as he thought of Clark: beautiful, intelligent, and worth protecting.

“Pleasure slaves are a time-honored tradition. Ancient texts of all cultures speak of concubines, special harlots, and pleasure slaves. Unlike courtesans who are of free status, the manacled must perform their primary duties whether or not they desire to do so.”

Bruce shifted uncomfortably. He watched as the slides clicked, various pleasure slaves of both sexes and all races, Human and otherwise, presented to the audience. Bruce was amazed at the variety.

“Pleasure slaves occupy a high place in slave hierarchy. Often they are the most pampered, many never having to do hard physical labor, though some might say constant sex might be a hardship, considering the Master or Mistress.

“Their clothing, when they’re allowed to wear any, is of the finest. Food is plentiful to keep up the energy and beauty of such slaves.” Kessell nodded to his partner.

Crandall took up the narrative. “Old-fashioned customs dictate a pleasure slave must be ‘always open and ready for his Master’. That is why you will see some slaves in public seated and open-legged while clothed, as per their Master’s orders. Some are never clothed, but usually in the present era, that occurs only in the privacy of the Master’s home.”

_Well, it would be nice to see Clark in all his magnificent glory all the time, but I’m not about to require it outside the bedroom._

Bruce blushed a little at the thought of Clark naked even inside the Manor, not to mention out. 

_Don’t worry, Clark, I would never humiliate you._

He had never humiliated Alfred, and he wasn’t about to start with Clark.

“A pleasure slave might know his Master best. And, by the way, ladies, this definitely applies to females, too, both free and slave.” The women in the audience smiled and nodded. “Intimacy can sometimes lead a slave to know his Master well.”

Bruce felt a little uneasy. What if Clark figured out his secret life? 

_Would that be so bad?_ Bruce tapped his stylus on his notepad. _For so long, it’s just been Alfred and me involved in the Mission…and outside of it, too._

“A truly clever slave can be a Master’s sounding board, advisor, someone who can be trusted more than another freeman. Sometimes more than a spouse.” 

Bruce blinked. Clark could be all those things…

“Pleasure slaves are pampered, but also resented, by slave and free alike. A precarious position for one already in a precarious situation, indeed.”

Bruce felt a surge of protectiveness. Precarious, indeed, and he wasn’t about to let that status hurt Clark any more than it had already. 

When the intermission came, Bruce drifted out to the lobby.

What he saw outside the glass doors made him slip away to the utility closet, and the Batman hurried to the conference center roof.

A crowd of protesters was shouting at the Gotham policemen in riot squad gear, their eyes concealed by dark visors, stun guns held in black leather gloves.

A woman with a face contorted in hate screamed, “Those abos should go home! We don’t want their kind here!”

A man yelled, “They’re spreading their hippie pinko ideas here! Out of Gotham!”

“Out of Gotham!”

“Out of Gotham!”

“Out of Gotham!”

The protesters surged forward. The police pushed them back. As the protesters gathered themselves to try again, the Batman swooped down between both groups.

“Batman!” The woman who had screamed staggered back, the protesters momentarily taken aback.

“Disperse before someone gets hurt,” Batman intoned.

The woman, thirtyish and stocky, glared at the dark figure. “We have a right to protest, vigilante!”

“You do, but you have no right to threaten these officers or the people inside.”

“We’re a threat to these officers? They’re armed to the teeth!” She laughed contemptuously.

“Get back and we can all go home.”

The man who had yelled before stepped closer to the woman. Tall and thin, his pale eyes narrowed. “We have no beef with these policemen. We do object to these ultra-liberals and their insidious little social agenda.”

“These whackos should go home!” screamed a young blond woman, brandishing her sign. Four-letter words seemed to be her specialty.

“If they’re so ‘whacko’, so ‘fringe’, why be so concerned?” Batman made a sweeping motion with his glove, artfully including his cape.

The stocky woman’s face contorted again. “Because we don’t like their kind!”

“Madame, you don’t help your cause by threatening violence. Leave the abolitionists alone, and they will be gone from Gotham within a day.”

“And what about you? What do you think about this crazy agenda? Freeing slaves!” Her voice dripped contempt.

Batman nearly sighed. “Madame, my opinion is of no consequence. I merely want a cessation of hostilities.” His cape billowed out behind him as a gust of wind came up.

Muttering went around the crowd, their eyes fixed on the implacable Bat and the police behind him, and finally the woman snapped, “Let’s go!”

As the protesters moved away, the head of the riot squad standing right next to the Dark Knight said, “Thanks, Batman.”

“You’re welcome, Lieutenant.”

Batman used his grapple hook and disappeared into the night.

& & & & & &

Fifteen minutes later, ‘Sean Kennedy’ slipped back into his auditorium seat. 


	8. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations for the Halloween Week house party begin at Wayne Manor.

_"A slave is always a reflection of his Master."_

  


A Guideline For Slaves   
2222 C.E.   
(26th Edition)

Bruce had to be insane.

Otherwise why would he have invited not only his old friends Lex Luthor and Ollie Queen for what constituted a week-long house party, but had cheerfully included Air Force majors Hal Jordan and Steve Trevor?

As the abolitionist convention had folded up and left town, many more people were coming into Gotham for a week-long celebration of Halloween. As Bruce gathered up papers to put in his briefcase, he pondered such a scene: he rarely entertained here at the Manor, preferring to do so in public for balls and banquets and the charitable endeavors. He liked his privacy, and there was the little matter of his other life. Batman might not be able to do regular patrols this week, and having so many people in the house made accidental discovery a problem. 

Yet he was obliged as Lord of Wayne Manor to offer hospitality to his friends. Allowing them to book hotel rooms when he had all this space was insulting. Ollie had requested the inclusion of the majors.

Bruce sighed as he walked to the kitchen. Halloween was his busiest time of year as Batman, too. Oh, well, there was no help for it.

“Good morning, Master Bruce.”

“Good morning, Alfred.” Bruce smiled at Clark, who was already seated at the breakfast table. “Alfred, I want you to start training Clark for formal service. I know it’s short notice…”

“Not a problem, sir. Clark is a quick study.”

Clark cocked his head. “Formal service, sir?” 

“Yes.” Bruce sat down and poured syrup over his blueberry pancakes. “You will have to assist Alfred in serving our guests. That means you have to know the proper conduct.”

“Oh.” Clark suddenly smiled. “Majors Trevor and Jordan are coming?”

Bruce laughed. “Yes.” He reached over and grasped Clark’s chin, tilting his head up. “Your eye is healing nicely.” Bruce grimaced. “I hope they won’t think I’m beating my slave up with the bruises on your arms showing, faint as they are now.”

Clark nuzzled the hand that now cupped his cheek. “Wouldn’t that drive your stock up?” His tone was teasing.

Bruce smirked. “Maybe.” He caressed Clark’s face. “Some might find it amusing but others know I don’t mistreat slaves.” He allowed amusement into his voice. “Isn’t that right, Alfred?”

“More likely you drive them to distraction, sir.”

Clark’s eyes twinkled as he and Alfred exchanged smiles. Bruce shook his head. Outnumbered!

“Our guests will be here in a few days. Each man should get his own room. I don’t think that Lex or Ollie are bringing slaves, whether for their beds or not. I highly doubt Majors Trevor or Jordan will bring any, but if any of our guests do, they will let us know.”

“Very good, sir.”

Bruce gave Clark one last caress, then left for the city.

“Now, Clark, you will be at the Master’s guests’ beck-and-call. Anything they request you will provide.” Clark nodded. “You will be helping me serve formal dinner. As for breakfast and luncheon, Master Bruce will decide if you are to join him or serve. More than likely he will have you serve if the meal is at home, and you will accompany him outside the Manor and partake with the guests as well.

“When you serve before-dinner hors d’oeuvres, you shall never meet the eyes of the guests unless asked a question. You address them as ‘sir’ or ‘my liege’. If they direct you to address them differently, you do so, or if Master Bruce tells you.”

Alfred began clearing away the breakfast dishes and Clark jumped up to help.

“You must always comport yourself as to reflect favorably on the Master. Clark…” Alfred hesitated “…he may ask you to do thing he has not before.” 

A little shiver ran through Clark. “Such as…?”

“Such as requiring you to kneel at his feet, or to perform acts that are required of a pleasure slave.”

“Do you…do you mean…unclothed?” Clark felt a blush burn his face.

“Possibly.” Alfred filled the turbowash with the plates and cups, turning the machine on. “However, I am highly doubtful that Master Bruce will require nudity, though you must be ready if he so desires it. Often a young Master like Lord Wayne will be quite protective of a bedslave in public, but in a more intimate setting, he will wish to show his pride in you as his Prized Possession.”

Clark felt a mixture of emotions: pride in Bruce’s pride in him; anxiety over making a misstep in front of his Master’s guests; a wish that he could be more than a possession to Bruce, prized or not.

“At least you won’t be loaned out.” Alfred began making a list of groceries for all the meals he would have to serve this week. “In another Master’s hands, he could offer you to each man, one per night, or multiple partners in one night if that were their desires.”

Clark shook slightly as he grabbed a dustcloth. “I…I’ll get busy dusting the halls.” He left the kitchen quickly.

Alfred regretted getting so explicit, but it was his duty to spell these things out for the young man. Despite Master Bruce’s kindness, he still owned them and expected obedience. The young Master was also a proud man. If he believed ordering Clark to do something would befit his status as the Lord of the Manor, he would do it.

Though it was highly unlikely he would order anything to humiliate Clark.

Alfred turned on the radio as he worked on his list. Five people to serve three times a day for nearly a week, and he had to figure in food for himself and Clark. The wine cellar took care of alcoholic beverages, but there was soda and water to supply.

Alfred wrote for a few minutes, listening to the classical music from the radio.

Alfred knew that Clark had brought a brightness to the house, captivating his young Master. Bruce had never indicated that he wanted a pleasure slave. In fact, he had involved himself with hardly anyone over the years, all because of the Mission.

Master Bruce coming home that day not so long ago with a beautiful slave in tow had surprised him, but he believed it was a good thing after all. 

And he took his duties as mentor to Clark very seriously. It was a good idea that Clark had an idea of what might be required of him. In Alfred’s experience, it was best if a slave wasn’t surprised by what his Master might order him to do. Yes, best to be prepared.

_“The Flash foiled a robbery attempt in Central City an hour ago, witnesses describing the familiar scarlet-and-gold blur as the speedster disarmed the gunmen._

_“Congress continues to debate the Branding Bill, with tempers hot as both sides present their cases._

_“In other news, Rigel IV announced their highest Gross Planetary Product since the formation of the Empire. Prosperity continues to rise throughout the Known Worlds. An Economic Summit is planned for next spring on Thanagar._

_“Finally, in local news, revelers are streaming into Gotham City for the week-long events surrounding Halloween. Included is the opening of the Egyptian exhibit at the Gotham Art Museum on Wednesday.”_

& & & & & &

Alfred was in his glory. The Manor was sparkling, the freezer and refrigerator fully-stocked, the silverware polished. Clark had helped with all these tasks as Alfred continued his training.

Clark absorbed everything, eager to make Bruce proud and to contribute beyond what he was able to do between the sheets. He wanted as much respect as a slave could possibly get, even if it was only a modicum.

Alfred even tutored him on his wardrobe. He would not be required to wear a butler’s uniform but he could _not_ appear too casual. The proper clothes were all set out for him and Clark was grateful. He did not want to commit any major _faux pas._

He was dressed and ready on the Monday when the guests were due to arrive. Bruce inspected him with approval and handed him his dark glasses.

As Clark slipped them on, Bruce said, “You _are_ beautiful, my Prize.” He lifted Clark’s chin, pride shining from his eyes.

Clark smiled, a pink blush spreading over his cheeks. Bruce winked and left the bedroom, Clark right behind him.

Downstairs Bruce accepted his jacket from Alfred and headed out to his limousine with Brendan behind the wheel. Alfred touched Clark’s arm.

“We need to prepare the dining room.”

Clark nodded and followed the butler down the hall. 

Halloween Week at Wayne Manor had begun.


	9. Golden Silverware And Glass Slippers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce brings his guests home as Wayne Manor sparkles with hospitality.

_Gold forks and knives  
And slippers glass,  
Sparkled and shone,  
Bold as brass._

_The palace sat  
High on the hill,  
The Prince’s subjects  
Bent to his will._

_His crown was gold,  
His slave bejewelled,  
All bowed before him,  
As he wisely ruled._

  


**J.M. Simon  
"Enchanted Fairy Tales"   
1963 C.E.**

Halloween in Gotham was like Salem, Massachusetts during this week or Mardi Gras in New Orleans: a week-long round of wild festivities that brought thousands into the city. Other cities such as Metropolis and Star City were excellent hosts of the holiday, but Halloween lived in Gotham’s blood. Metropolis laid better claim to Christmas and New Year’s with its fairytale lights and holiday magic. Gotham’s gargoyles, flying buttresses, and mansard roofs welcomed being draped in figurative black.

Bruce watched as the daytime crowds were already starting to become costumed. His mouth quirked as he saw a few Bat-costumes.

He settled back against the leather seat of the limousine. It was usually the busiest time of the year for him in his other job. He would have to find a way to balance things out this week.

Brendan found a parking space outside Gotham Union Station. Bruce headed inside the beautiful Beaux Arts building, the cavernous hall bustling with travelers. The sleek, sophisticated trains were designed to look like Art Deco trains of old but were incredibly fast, unlike anything passengers of the 1930s could have expected. Monorail travel was the preferred mode for most travelers, its quiet efficiency surpassing air transport. 

_“The 8:47 train from Metropolis is arriving at Track 10.”_

Bruce headed there. The train from Star City would have merged into Metropolis, so Ollie and Lex were coming in together. The train glided in noiselessly, the passengers disembarking, some already in costume. Bruce spotted his friends and waved.

Ollie and Lex came over to Bruce, prisms of rainbow light spilling through the stained-glass windows high up in the station roof.

“Bruce, thanks for the invitation,” Ollie said as he shook hands. He looked around the station. “This is like Salem.”

Bruce laughed as he next shook hands with Lex. “Pretty crazy, all right.” He signaled his chauffeur to take his guests’ bags. “Majors Jordan and Trevor are coming up on the 9:45 Washington train. Would you gentlemen mind spending time in the coffee shop, or would you prefer that I have Brendan take you to the Manor and return for me and the majors?”

“Oh, coffee sounds fine, Bruce,” said Lex.

“Second that.” Ollie handed his bag to Brendan.

“Good.”

Bruce led them to the coffee shop, already busy with customers. They settled at a corner table and ordered coffee and bagels.

“So, how’s production going?” Bruce asked.

“On schedule,” Lex said with satisfaction. “General Stark did an inspection at the plant last week and seemed pleased.”

Bruce smiled at the waitress who brought their order and stirred his coffee as Lex and Ollie put sugar in their cups. “Did Stark mention anything more about the problems on the breeding farms?”

Lex shook his head. “Touchy subject, not to mention top secret.” He smiled. “Of course, with my top clearance, we can discuss it, but the general seems reluctant to do so.”

During this conversation, Bruce and Lex had kept their voices low. As an elderly couple was seated at the next table, Bruce quickly changed the subject. “I hope you brought costumes. The Masquerade at the Art Museum this week is one of the premier events.” 

“I did,” Lex said. “I think it might be time to pull out Alexander the Great again.”

“Wise choice, Lex,” Bruce said in amusement.

“Of course, I don’t have a Bagoas to grace my bed.”

Bruce sipped his coffee. “You’re right. And you’re not getting this one, either.”

Lex smiled. “He must be a Prize beyond all Prizes.”

Bruce’s smile was predatory. Lex and Ollie exchanged amused glances.

The old friends spoke of old times, Bruce enjoying the conversation. Ollie was closer to Bruce in terms of business strategy and philosophy, Lex occasionally skirting ethical edges, but the three were close-knit, having survived the rigors of boarding school and losses in their lives. Ollie had lost both parents in a plane crash, the only survivor of that horrible trauma. Lex had lost his mother to cancer when he was just a child, leaving him to be raised by Lionel, who would never win a Father of the Year award, in Bruce’s opinion.

They understood each other from shared backgrounds in so many things. The world of men raised as billionaires was a rarified one even in this century, and Bruce was glad to have the friendship of these two men.

 _“The 9:45 train from Washington, D.C., is arriving at Track 6.”_

“Right on time.”

The three men left the coffee shop and walked toward Track 6. Passengers disembarked, and Lex said, “There!”

He pointed toward the two Air Force majors in dress uniform, who saw them and headed right over.

Handshakes all around, then Bruce said, “I’ll get my chauffeur to take your bags.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Wayne. We can handle them,” Steve said. 

“All right. And, please, it’s Bruce.”

The quartet walked out of the bustling station and toward Bruce’s limousine. Brendan took the majors’ bags and stored them in the trunk.

The ride through the city streets fascinated the out-of-towners. Costumed revelers walked around as if they did so every day. When Hal made that comment, Lex said dryly, “Sometimes they do.”

“Do you mean the Rogues’ Gallery?” asked Ollie.

Lex nodded.

“Rogues’ Gallery?” Hal asked. “You mean the Joker and Catwoman?”

“And Penguin and Riddler.”

“Seems like the Batman has his hands full,” Ollie observed.

“He seems to manage,” said Lex.

“Gotham’s full of crazies, supervillains or not.” Ollie’s green eyes sparkled as he looked at Bruce. “Present company excepted.”

“Quite all right,” Bruce smiled.

“Bruce is used to Crazy Gotham.” Ollie patted his friend’s knee.

Bruce laughed this time. He covered Ollie’s hand with his own, affection shining in his eyes. “Crazy isn’t always a bad thing.”

Lex snorted and Hal and Steve exchanged amused glances.

& & & & & &

Bruce was proud of his ancestral home as he witnessed the Air Force majors’ reactions. Awed appreciation showed in their faces as they rode through the massive iron gates, up the long, winding driveway surrounded by ancient trees, and finally up to the Manor itself.

Even with the myriad of decorations, Wayne Manor’s storied dignity rose up against the clear October sky, solid and imposing and magnificent. Clark and Alfred had put up the Halloween decorations: Jack O’Lanterns lined the front and back verandas and orange-and-yellow candles had been placed in all the windows. The pillars at the front entrance were entwined with vines that grew small pumpkin-shaped flowers. Bruce knew that a handcrafted Witch doll had been hung on the kitchen door in the back with more carved pumpkins flanking the door.

Inside, there were small displays of pumpkins, gourds, and leaves on tables and in each guest room. 

As Bruce and his guests alighted from the limousine, the front door opened and Alfred appeared.

“Master Bruce, welcome to your guests.”

“Thank you, Alfred.” Bruce felt pride as Alfred greeted his guests with the utmost impeccable hospitality.

Inside the Grand Foyer, Hal and Steve looked around in impressed wonder.

“This place still looks magnificent, Bruce,” Lex said.

Bruce felt a twinge of guilt. He hadn’t invited his old friends over in a very long time.

_Since Batman began._

“Thanks, Lex. Alfred does a great job of running this place.”

Alfred smiled in acknowledgment of his Master’s praise. “Gentlemen, this way to your rooms to freshen up. Refreshments will be served in the library in half an hour.”

Each man received a luxurious guest room on the same floor as Bruce’s room. His bedroom had a private bathroom, and his old room next to the master bedroom had one as well, which had been assigned to Ollie. There was a bathroom at the end of the hall for the occupants of the other rooms. 

The guests settled themselves in their rooms, changed to casual clothes, and were down in the library in thirty minutes.

Bruce was already there, and after everyone was seated he signaled for the refreshments.

But it wasn’t Alfred who entered bearing a tray of drinks and snacks. Bruce’s Prize was dressed in a white silk shirt and fawn-colored slacks, his rainbow collar sparkling as he moved to stand beside his Master, his head bowed, his eyes hidden by the dark glasses.

Bruce felt a swell of pride as avid appreciation appeared in his guests’ eyes. Ollie winked at him.

Bruce touched his slave’s arm and Clark raised his head.

“Clark is here to serve you.”

Eyes widened at Bruce’s use of Clark’s name. Each man understood the honor that had just been bestowed upon them, and understood that they were not to reveal his name to anyone outside this room.

Bruce had made the decision that morning. Ollie already knew, he trusted Lex, and he instinctively trusted Hal and Steve. Somehow it had seemed like the right thing to do. 

“Excellent,” Lex said.

Each man was extremely appreciative of the slave standing before them, beautiful and pliant.

“Refreshments, gentlemen,” Bruce said. 

Clark offered the tray to each guest, then quietly left the room.

“Oh, my, Bruce,” Lex said as he sipped his drink. “Little wonder you’ve been working from home so much lately.”

Everyone grinned and Bruce chuckled as he sat in an overstuffed chair. “It’s true. When you have beauty in your possession you need to take advantage of it.” 

The talk shifted to the Halloween celebration, Hal and Steve curious about the genesis of it all.

“Well, one year, 1939, in fact, the city held a giant street festival in addition to the Harvest Ball, which was really celebrating Halloween. Things just grew and grew until we now have a week-long orgy of activities.” 

Ollie snorted. “Orgy is right. We saw some pretty wild stuff on the way over from the station.” 

Bruce grinned. “Old friend, that was tame for Gotham. The week is just getting started.”

“You think ol’ Stark lengthened the meetings so that he could go partake of Gotham’s pleasures this week?” 

Ollie, Bruce, and Lex laughed while Hal and Steve smirked.

Bruce looked at the two pilots. “Gentlemen, have there been more attacks on the Rim?”

The two exchanged looks, but they knew the men in their room had the highest security clearance. Hal sipped his drink, then said, “There has been another attack.”

“The Collective?”

“We don’t know. The Collective is very slippery. We’re not even sure what they look like.” He took a longer drink. “Then was a raid on another outpost in the Rim last month.” Hal set his drink down. “It was a Kryptonian.”

Bruce leaned forward. “What do you mean by raid?”

“The Kryptonian tried to free some slaves on the outpost. He would have succeeded, but…” Hal took a deep breath “…the Gov forces used Green K.”

Bruce sipped his own drink. “I suppose they’ll still continue the Hunt, then.”

“More than ever.”

Lex shook his head. “What a waste.”

Ollie nodded in agreement.

“The factions in the Air Force and the other military branches are pretty clear: either eradication or control.”

“Has anyone ever controlled them?” Ollie asked.

“We’ve heard rumors that they’ve captured some of the Kryptonians and are experimenting on them, but it’s only rumors.”

Bruce frowned. “They’d certainly be great warriors, but their abolitionist leanings would make it unlikely they would willingly help us.”

“That’s where the control comes in.”

Lex spoke. “Control would be the way to go.”

Bruce wondered if these Kryptonians could ever be controlled.

“Gentlemen, luncheon is served,” Clark said as he appeared in the library doorway.

Bruce led his guests to the dining room. Fresh flowers graced the table, and the china gleamed on a light-blue tablecloth. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, brightening a room filled with dark furniture.

Clark served the first course, a rich tomato soup, with flawless precision. Bruce felt pride as he watched his slave.

_Beauty **and** grace._

His feelings of possessiveness surged up in him. All the beauty and shy charm that was Clark was under his command. With a single word, he could have his beautiful slave at his feet.

The glass he brought to his lips hid his smile.

& & & & & &

The afternoon passed pleasantly as Bruce conducted a tour of the grounds. Since the estate was so large, the men were able to do a lot of walking.

At the end of the tour they enjoyed the view from the seawall at the edge of the cliff close to the house. The surf pounded against the rocks, wild and sparkling as the deep sapphire-blue was tipped with foam.

“I suppose the water’s freezing,” Ollie said.

“This time of year it’s pretty cold but not unbearable,” Bruce replied with a smile.

“Yeah, not unbearable if you’re a polar bear,” Lex quipped.

Chuckles all around, then they headed back to the house.

“Good thing for this extensive walk.” Hal patted his stomach. “Your butler’s cooking is superb.”

“Thank you.” Bruce smiled proudly at the compliment to Alfred and opened the kitchen door. “We also can offer you a fully-equipped gym. I’ll give you a tour before dinner.” 

Alfred looked up as the men trooped through the kitchen. “Ah, gentlemen. Dinner will be served in an hour.”

“Very good, Alfred. This way, gentlemen.”

Bruce showed them the gym and sauna. “Please feel free to use it all at any time, day or night.”

“Could be good for an early-morning work-out tomorrow. Our meeting isn’t until ten,” Hal said.

“We can all go in together,” Bruce said.

“Sounds good to me.” Steve smiled.

Bruce and his guests went upstairs to dress for dinner. As Bruce entered his room, he was treated to the sight of a damp, naked Clark emerging from the bathroom, wet hair curling over his forehead.

Bruce’s smile was lascivious as he stepped forward, took hold of Clark’s face, and kissed him deeply.

When they broke apart, Clark’s eyes were sparkling. “What brought that on?”

“Oh, just enjoying my slave.” Bruce caressed Clark’s cheek. “Also, I’m pleased with your service so far.” Clark blushed at the praise. Bruce laughed gently. Clark’s shyness never ceased to delight him. “Get dressed and down to the kitchen. Alfred needs your help.”

“Yes, Master.” Clark was smiling now, pleased at Bruce’s good mood.

Bruce showered and dressed, thinking of logistics for later in the evening. He was enjoying playing Lord of the Manor, but he couldn’t neglect his other role, especially during Halloween Week.

& & & & & &

The dining room gleamed with the finest gold-trimmed china, the flowers fresh and aromatic surrounding a small pumpkin set on a golden tray in the center of the table. This time the tablecloth was of the snowiest white, the linen napkins a rich gold. Yellow candles were lit in gold candlesticks.

The chandelier’s lighting was low, orange/yellow nimbuses of light glowing from the candles in the windows, lending the scene a soft patina. As Bruce’s guests came in, they were impressed by the whole effect. As Steve took his seat, his eyes widened.

“Yes, it’s gold silverware,” Bruce said with a smile.

“Is this a fairy tale?” 

The other men chuckled. “I agree with you, Steve,” said Hal. “We gentlemen of humbler background are going around with our eyes wide open!” 

“Hey, the Queen family tableware doesn’t include gold!” protested Ollie with a laugh.

“Thats’ right, it’s platinum,” Bruce smirked. “Gentlemen, when we go to the Ball later this week, I’ll have Brendan drive the pumpkin to the front door and we can climb on in.”

“Will you provide fairy godmothers and glass slippers?”

“No, but I can provide some of the greatest food to rival Gotham’s finest restaurants, right here, right now.”

If any man also thought of the pleasure slave that could also be provided, no one said so.

Bruce doubted that any of his guests would think so, but even if they did nothing would come of it. He wasn’t about to order Clark to spread his legs for anyone but him, he thought with a touch of smugness and a whole lot of protective possessiveness.

& & & & & &

Out in the kitchen, Clark and Alfred were working seamlessly to serve dinner. Clark was still nervous about his role, but Alfred was quietly confident that he would do just fine.

“Soup,” Alfred said.

Clark helped him ladle out the French onion broth, steaming-hot and smelling delicious. Clark’s stomach rumbled but there would be no food for him or Alfred until after the Master and his guests were finished.

“Clark.”

“Yes?” Clark carefully set the bowls on the serving tray. He looked up at the butler.

“When you get back, I have some rolls for you.”

Clark’s face wreathed in a smile. “Thanks, Alfred.”

He took the tray after adding a basket of warm bread to it and headed toward the dining room.

Clark was thankful that he wasn’t shaky this evening. What kind of disaster would it be to spill the soup? He concentrated on keeping perfect balance as he left the kitchen.

“…really, does it matter who runs for President anymore?” Bruce was saying as Clark entered the diving room. “The Federal Republic is dead. There are no more ‘Feds’, just ‘Govs’.”

“So the political process is a sham?” asked Lex in the tone of , ‘Shocking, just shocking!’ His pale blue eyes sparkled.

Bruce snorted. “Of course!”

“Corruption rules,” Ollie agreed as he picked up his soup spoon after Clark set the bowl in front of him.

“Gotham invented the concept.” Bruce drank his wine as his guests were served first.

“Well, D.C. might give you a run for your money.” Steve smiled his thanks at Clark as he received his soup.

“True.” Bruce took a roll out of the basket and offered the basket to Ollie on his right. “Everything’s so big now, and we’re just a cog in the Galactic scheme of things.”

“Empires don’t like individuality.”

“So why does the Government allow festivities like what we’re enjoying in Gotham?” Hal asked as he buttered a roll.

“Bread ‘n’ circuses,” Bruce said as steaming soup was set in front of him.

Clark returned to the kitchen, picking up the roll Alfred had set aside for him. 

“Everything all right in there?”

“Yes.” Clark quickly buttered the bread. “They’re talking politics.”

“Ah, always edifying.”

Clark smiled. “Aren’t you going to eat something?”

“I’m not hungry. Besides,” the butler winked, “I don’t need to keep my strength up for later in the evening.” 

Clark blushed. He enjoyed the taste of the freshly-baked bread as he set out the salad plates.

By the time the entrée was ready, Clark had eaten another roll and several crackers. He finished stacking the used plates by the sink. Such fine china had to be hand-washed instead of being placed in a turbowash. 

“Your usual fine job, Alfred,” said Clark as he helped fill the plates with roast chicken, baby-sized vegetables and whipped potatoes with chives.

“Well, tomorrow will be French, so I thought American cooking would suit tonight.”

“Flawless as usual.”

Alfred beamed at the compliment. “Off with you now.”

& & & & & &

Back in the dining room, Bruce was saying, “I hope the information left in your rooms helps you decide what you’d like to see. We got the Halloween Week schedule right off the website, and there’s the more usual things like the Amazon exhibit at the Art Museum, or the series of plays at the Globe Theater…” 

Clark carefully set the plates before each man, proud of the quality of Alfred’s cooking and the royal place settings. Wayne Manor was showing her magnificence tonight.

And Bruce was the regal Lord of the Manor, gracious and charming and a generous host. Clark felt a surge of love and pride for his beautiful Master.

“Yes, call my chauffeur anytime. Brendan is on call 24/7 this week. He’ll have next week off in compensation.”

Bruce’s eyes met Clark’s, and the two shared a smile.

Clark returned to the kitchen, a warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with the Manor’s heating system.

Alfred smiled upon seeing him. “Everything going smoothly?”

Clark smiled in reply. “Perfectly.”


	10. Glittering Gold, Touched By Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Halloween Week gears up, there’s private partying at the Manor.

_Silver and gold  
Never gets old._

_Moonlight becomes you._

  


**Janice Greenleaf Whittier  
"Nature’s Gold And Other Poems"   
2007 C.E.**

Clark sat down, glad to rest after a busy evening. He and Alfred still had to clean up but even the butler was hungry now. They sat companionably at the kitchen table while Bruce, Lex, and Ollie sat in the library with after-dinner drinks and Hal and Steve walked around outside.

“They really enjoyed your chocolate cake.”

“Well, of course. It’s world-class.”

Clark laughed as he took a bite of chicken.

“Will Master Bruce be requiring you to accompany him to the meeting tomorrow?”

“He didn’t say anything.”

“Well, he still might. Mmm, the potatoes are especially good, if I do say so myself.”

Clark chuckled and looked around as the door to the outside opened. Hal and Steve tumbled in, laughing and joking as they quickly shut the door against the night cold. Steve held out his hand as he saw Clark and Alfred begin to rise. “No, please, enjoy your dinner, gentlemen. And, Alfred, your meal was superb.” 

Alfred inclined his head. “Thank you, Major Trevor.”

“Well, I’m just from humble middle-class origins, so Mom was our chief cook with help from the rest of us, though I see how you have help here.” Steve smiled at Clark.

“Excellent help.”

Clark blushed at all the attention.

Hal clapped a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Same background here, unlike the Billionaire Trio in the library.”

Chuckles went around the kitchen. Hal winked as he led Steve out of the kitchen.

& & & & & &

Everyone decided to turn in early because of the hour of their meeting the next day.

In Steve’s room, he relaxed, taking off his uniform jacket. It had seemed like the proper thing to do at the formal evening meal, but he would be happy to dress more casually at some point.

He sat on the bed and rubbed his face. He probably should go over the agenda for tomorrow’s meeting. He pulled out a folder from his briefcase and grumbled as a book fell out. He picked it up, intending to put it back, but stared at the familiar cover.

“Hey, Stevie, I forgot my dental floss. Do you have a spare before I have to bother Alfred?” Hal stopped as he saw the book. “Aw, Stevie, you still obsessing over that story?” 

“I just found it…interesting.” Steve placed the book on the bed. _History Of The Amazons_ was lettered boldly on the cover, a blond Amazon in full battle dress wielding sword and shield.

“They’ve been conquered since 1863.” Hal tapped the cover. “That’s definitely an anachronism.”

“It doesn’t seem right somehow.”

Hal shrugged. “They already wore what they called the Bracelets of Submission. The Government just figured to make it official.”

Steve rubbed his eyes. “I know.” He looked up, blue eyes tired.

Hal sighed, green eyes affectionate. “Maybe we can catch the exhibit at the Gotham Art Museum. It’s running through Thursday.”

Steve’s eyes lit up. “The Amazon exhibit?”

Hal laughed. “Yes. How about we stay in town after the meeting? We can visit the Museum and take all the time you want.” 

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

Hal smiled, running his fingers through shining blond hair. “Any other plans, my friend?”

Steve laughed, capturing the hand. “What do you think the Lord of the Manor would think of his guests sharing a bed?”

“With what he’s got in _his_ bed? I doubt he’d think anything at all.”

Steve grinned as they tumbled to the sheets.

& & & & & &

Clark unbuttoned his shirt, looking up as Bruce entered the room. He took hold of Clark’s shoulders, drawing him into a kiss.

“Mmm, what’s this about?”

Bruce’s eyes sparkled. “A thank you for your exemplary service tonight.”

Clark blushed. “My pleasure is to serve you, Master.”

Bruce laughed as he nuzzled Clark’s neck. “One more service to perform.” He stepped back, waiting as Clark finished undressing, then directed him to stretch out on his back in bed.

“So proud,” Bruce purred, taking out long, glittery lengths of chain and attaching the links to his slave’s bracelets, chaining Clark’s arms to the bedposts. “My Prize has given me so much.” Bruce’s finger ran down the side of Clark’s face to his lips, and Clark kissed it. Bruce smiled, glad that Clark was signaling a willingness to play, not just obey. He affixed ankle manacles, gently urging Clark to spread his legs as he chained those as well, testing to see if the bonds were too tight. 

He leaned down and whispered, “Always open and ready for me, as you should be.” Bruce smiled at the little shiver he felt go through Clark as he rested his hand on his slave’s stomach. “Maybe I should have you service my guests as well, tell them line up outside this door and enjoy you, one-by-one.” At Clark’s wide-eyed look he winked, Clark relaxing as he realized that Bruce was in playful mode and didn’t mean what he was saying.

“I’m here to serve, Master,” Clark whispered back, a little illicit thrill skittering through him at Bruce’s words.

“Ah, my beautiful Prize.” Bruce ran his fingers through silky dark hair, his own midnight-blue eyes glittering. “One…” he nipped an ear “…by…” kissed the throat “…one.” Bruce’s hand gently stroked up and down Clark’s stomach, teasingly close to the groin.

Clark shuddered, a groan escaping him as his hips moved. 

“Mmm, my eager Prize.” Bruce’s tone was amused. “To have you here, ready and waiting…what more could a Master ask for?”

Bruce slipped the dark glasses onto Clark. He gently laid a kiss on his slave’s lips, then glided out of the room, leaving the door ajar in case Clark needed something. The glasses were to keep him partially Veiled in case a guest walked by and looked into the room.

& & & & & &

Clark closed his eyes as he listened to the sounds of the house: creaking branches tapping against the window, running water in the bathroom next door, muffled footsteps further down the hall. He allowed his breathing to relax as he moved his limbs in the small area of space that Bruce had left him. He was grateful that his Master had left him some wiggle room. If his limbs had been pulled taut he would have suffered considerable discomfort. Eventually he would drift off to sleep and get the rest he needed in order to serve his Master better. He let his thoughts drift.

He was hopelessly in love with his Master. While it gave him happiness, he wished that Bruce felt the same.

_But even if he did, it wouldn’t be easy._

From what he had read, Masters weren’t supposed to fall in love with their slaves, and if they did and people found out about it, it would cause no end of trouble for Bruce.

Clark sighed as he tried to get some sleep.

& & & & & &

He had never loved his city more.

Batman surveyed the partying crowds down below from his perch atop the Braddock Building. His cape whipped out to the side, his silhouette black against the nearly-full moon. 

Gotham was made for Halloween: old stone, leering gargoyles, sorrowful angels. Buildings like the one he stood upon dated from Victorian times, the Gothic look of the city the perfect backdrop for costumed revelers, bright and glittering with feathers, sequins, beads and capes.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the pungent scents of Hungarian stew, fried dough, and bubbling applesauce in kiosks that dotted the sidewalks. A strong scent of chocolate wafted up, his face curving into a smile. Clark liked dark chocolate. He’d noticed that whenever given a choice, he always chose dark over milk.

_Never hurts to indulge my pretty pleasure slave, who gives **me** so much pleasure._

He would be out and about one of these nights this week. He would make sure to pick up some chocolate.

He thought of the delicious sweetness he had waiting for him at home. 

_Open and ready._

A shiver of delight went through him. His smile turned predatory as he saw a pickpocket take off.

_Just what I need to keep in practice._

He took off, enjoying the thrill of the chase.

& & & & & &

Bruce removed his cowl, the bats skittering far up in the Cave. He had cut his patrol short. Nothing but petty crime, and the police could handle that. He had a Prize to claim upstairs.

He showered, allowed himself time to dry off while checking the computer, and dressed in his clothes of a few hours earlier. He went up the stone steps, nudging the grandfather clock open after listening to make sure no one was in the library. It was unlikely but his guests were men who kept unusual hours.

It was all clear. Bruce slipped out of the tunnel and library and went up the stairs.

He nudged open the door to his bedroom all the way.

_Open…_

He walked in, as stealthy as the Bat.

_…and ready._

Silver moonlight caressed his slave’s body, reminding Bruce of the first night, Clark waiting for him in the proper position, kneeling and open…

Bruce couldn’t tell if Clark was awake because of the dark glasses. The even rise and fall of his chest indicated sleep.

 _I’ll just kiss Sleeping Beauty awake,_ he thought in amusement.

He approached the bed, eager to fully enjoy his Prize’s delights.

He slipped the glasses off, laying them on the nightstand. Asleep. The kiss, then.

He leaned down and kissed Clark, delighted when his slave moaned in response. Beautiful blue eyes fluttered opened, then closed again as Bruce’s tongue slipped inside his mouth.

When Bruce broke away, his smile was slightly predatory. Clark tried to catch his breath.

“M…Master.” Excitement sparkled in his eyes. He lowered his lashes. “I am here to serve.”

“Oh, yes.” Bruce kissed his brow. “Yes, my Starchild. Serve you shall.” He started to strip, Clark watching him from under those jet-black lashes. He was pleased at the admiration in his slave’s eyes.

Bruce climbed on the bed, kneeling between Clark’s spread legs, pulling his head back and tasting smooth flesh, careful not to knock his teeth on the cold metal of the collar. Fiercely he touched and tasted, one hand sliding down to caress silky inner thighs, then luscious curved buttocks, teasing at his opening, claiming another deep kiss.

“You look so lovely, Starchild,” Bruce murmured, preparing his fingers and cock with the cool lotion from the nightstand.

“I live to serve you.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Bruce began to enter yielding flesh. “I demand…” he slipped all the way in, Clark groaning “…the utmost …” Clark’s head tilted back, eyes closed in pleasure “...from those…” the next thrust tore a scream from Clark “…I deem to be high quality.” 

Bruce’s thrusting was long and hard, Clark gasping as waves of pleasure rolled over him. The chains rattled with each thrust, his hips arching up for deeper penetration.

“Master…” he groaned, wanting so much to give pleasure and nearly crying over the joy of the pleasure he was receiving.

Bruce let out a little cry of his own as he climaxed, fingers digging into his slave’s thighs. “Beautiful,” he whispered, easing out of Clark and curling around him, resting his head on Clark’s broad chest.

Clark panted, trying to catch his breath, Bruce purring and rubbing his cheek over Clark’s chest. “You make a lovely pillow.”

“Always ready to serve.”

Bruce laughed, kissing Clark’s chest.

“Did I please you, Master?”

“Oh, yes, you pleased me.” Bruce licked the salty-sweaty skin, shivering. “And you will continue…” his tongue slid around a nipple, smiling at Clark’s gasp “…to please me all night long.” He looked up and saw sparkling eyes.

Bruce sat up and got onto his knees, unchaining Clark’s wrists, re-chaining them behind his back. He unchained his ankles, attaching one length to his slave’s collar. He tugged gently on the collar chain, bringing Clark up to his knees.

Bruce read the eagerness and desire to please in Clark’s eyes. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if Clark would be the same as a freeman as he was as a slave in bed.

 _Would he be as eager to please if I didn’t hold the chain in my hand?_

It was a lovely thought, Clark wanting to please even without the collar and chain, but Bruce decided it was a moot point. Clark was his slave and always would be, and as long as Clark enjoyed these times in bed together as much as he did, it was all he could hope for. 

_Expect his obedience, but be gentle with him._

A good Master should always treat his slave well, especially one who gave such exquisite pleasure.

“Taste me,” Bruce whispered, and Clark instantly obeyed, kissing Bruce from his neck down his chest and to his groin, nipping and licking and hitting the sensitive spots he knew so well. Bruce kept his fingers entwined in his slave’s hair, allowing Clark to choose his path but ultimately controlling the result.

Clark’s breath tickled over his cock, little shivers of pleasure running through him. As the wet tongue licked his organ he kept his grip on Clark’s hair, his thighs trembling as he received his pleasure.

He urged Clark’s head closer, wanting more. Clark looked up at him, star’s eyes through dark lashes, light shining sweet and pure, then the perfect mouth took in his cock, sucking slowly and skillfully.

Bruce shuddered, watching the dark head bob, his fingers carding through silk. Wild sensations swept through him, hot wetness surrounding his cock as he received his pleasure.

 _Tasty and delicious._ He shivered. _Not to mention mind-blowing._

Clark couldn’t use his hands, but his mouth was talented enough. Moonlight glinted off his bracelets and collar, silvering his nude body.

_So perfect._

He felt himself come to the brink, one final thrust, and it was all over. His seed spilled into Clark’s mouth, his fingers clutched in his slave’s hair. Clark drank him all in, swallowing the essence of Bruce.

Bruce sighed softly as he slipped out of Clark’s mouth. He reached for Clark’s cock, amused at his slave’s blush.

“So you came without me.” Fond amusement sparkled in Bruce’s midnight-blue eyes. “You flatter me.”

Clark licked his lips. “I am proud to serve, Master.” His sapphire-blue eyes mirrored Bruce’s as they danced with starlight. 

Bruce laughed as he leaned down to kiss Clark.


	11. Marble Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Master/slave dynamics dominate the second day and evening of Halloween Week.

_"Is there anything more pathetic or ridiculous than a Master falling in love with his slave?"_

  


**Professor Reed Martin  
"The Master/Slave Dynamic"   
2246 C.E.**

The Manor guests were delighted with the fully-equipped gym on the estate. Each man rose early to take advantage of it, Bruce and Clark joining them. Clark continued to wear the dark glasses, Bruce willing to reveal his name but not his entire face. 

Clark was happy to hear that he was going along with Bruce for the meeting. He enjoyed taking notes and typing up a report. Bruce had been impressed by the clear, concise writing, and Clark was thrilled to show talents beyond the bedroom.

“I don’t just bake pies, you know,” Clark had said with a twinkle.

Bruce had noticed how happy Clark was lately, and it pleased him, not just because sulky slaves tried his patience but because he liked to see Clark happy.

_Clark **should** be happy._

So Bruce teasingly told Clark to shower alone, otherwise they would never be ready to leave.

Everyone was ready and waiting in the foyer as Brendan pulled the limousine up to the front door. Hal and Steve were in uniform, and all the men carried briefcases, including Clark, who carried an electronic clipboard, paper, and stylus in his case.

The six men piled into the limousine, Brendan getting the word that he should expect a late call from Hal and Steve.

“We’re going to catch the Amazon exhibit at the Museum,” Hal said. “We’re not sure if we’ll have dinner in town after.”

“Perfectly fine. Brendan will be ready no matter when you call.”

Hal grinned and settled back beside Steve. “I like the life of the rich and privileged.”

Bruce laughed. “Yes, you can get used to it.”

In the city, there were even more crowds, mainly in Knickerbocker Square and the Arts District, but downtown was colorful, too, with beaded and feathered costume-wearers cavorting with street musicians and performance artists.

Once at Wayne Enterprises, they settled quickly into the meeting. Bruce didn’t ask for a vote on Clark’s attendance this time. If anyone wished to change their vote, they could speak up. Clark sat in the corner, ready to take notes.

General Elias Stark called the meeting to order, his salt-and-pepper hair bristling in a crewcut. Buttons gleaming on his uniform, he cut an impressive figure.

“All right, gentlemen, let’s go around the room and report on production.”

Everyone seemed to be on schedule. In fact, Dax Mantell reported that the Rigellians were slightly ahead of schedule. After Dax’s report, he sat down, glancing appreciatively at Clark, who tried not to show his discomfort as Harvey Dent smirked next to Dax.

Bruce noticed the little exchange and frowned. 

_This time if Harvey asks for a taste, he’ll get a ‘no’. Only one per customer._

“Mr. Wayne.”

_Show time._

Bruce detailed his company’s production, which was right on time. When he finished, he sat down and opened a bottle of water, drinking and smiling at Clark, who smiled back and made a thumbs-up gesture.

Bruce tried to keep his concentration on the dry statistics, his mind drifting to last night’s incredibly hot sex. He grinned and put the bottle to his lips to hide it.

_Maybe a few chains will work again tonight. Hmm, on his back or his stomach? Always spread-eagled, open and ready for me to come home and take him, **hot and hard…**_

Bruce deliberately spilled some water on his arm. He needed to cool down! Otherwise he was going to be embarrassed if had to stand up again.

After the reports were done, Lex asked, “Any more Rim incidents, General?”

“No, thank God.”

“What about the breeding farms?” asked Harvey.

“Nothing further on that.”

“The Hunt?” Dax inquired.

Stark smiled. “Going well.”

Lex was disgruntled. Bruce knew that he preferred control of the Kryptonians rather than this eradication. Bruce didn’t care so much about the control issue, but the eradication bothered him. The Kryptonians were a handsome, intelligent race. Surely something besides annihilation could be done? Maybe Lex’s idea of control wasn’t such a bad idea if it kept them alive.

& & & & & &

During a break, Clark stretched his legs. He was safe here at Wayne Enterprises. No one would dare touch him when they realized who he was.

His mind was busy typing up his report from the meeting so far when a wave of dizziness hit him. Before he knew it, he was sitting on the floor, a wave of nausea curdling his stomach. He closed his eyes, dropping his head back against the wall. It was the day before his shot and he had been lucky so far until this moment as to symptoms.

_Some weeks are better than others._

With a shaking hand, he wiped sweat off his brow.

“Are you all right, ka _'tare?”_

The Rigellian accent clenched his stomach. He kept his head bowed, biting his lip as he tried to control his nervousness. The word used was ‘whore’ in Rigellian. 

Then a realization hit his fogged brain. Dax Mantell had placed the emphasis on the second syllable with the pronunciation _ka-ta-ray_. If he had emphasized the first syllable _(kat-a-ray)_ , the word would mean someone paid or enslaved for sex, someone who spread their legs on command, an object of contempt and derision. 

The second syllable emphasis meant a slave or free concubine used for sex, but the highest quality of skill and intelligence, treasured and cherished by the owner/patron. 

Clark looked up. “I…just had a dizzy spell, _m’katel.”_

Dax’s expression registered his pleased approval. Clark had used the form of address in the Rigellian language that acknowledged his understanding of the term. His trainer had taught him well.

Dax was crouched in front of him, violet eyes suddenly regretful. A slender man, he balanced easily on the balls of his feet. Amethyst streaked his dark hair. “I am sorry that you were subject to the worst my people have to offer. We are an ancient race, and we are skilled at the slave trade, but the slavers who hunt and trap…they aren’t the best representatives of Rigel.” He smiled. “Some of us appreciate the best of the quality.” He cocked his head. “I understand that Humans don’t always…appreciate…the layers of complexity a quality ka _'tare_ can offer.” 

“My Master appreciates me.”

“Of course. Bruce is high quality himself, of the free classes, naturally.” Dax’s eyes were suddenly soft. “If you ever need anything, I am always willing to assist a ka _’tare_.”

Clark felt a little better, his dizziness and nausea gone for now.

Dax hadn’t touched him, as he had no permission from Bruce, but now he said, “I am going to touch you in assistance.”

Clark nodded. He was going to need help to stand.

As Dax’s hand reached out, Clark suddenly rubbed his cheek in the open palm. Dax had respected him, and now he was giving Dax respect in return. Clark heard the Rigellian’s intake of breath.

“A Prize, indeed.” 

Dax helped Clark to his feet. He stayed close in case Clark felt woozy again, only separating from him when they approached the conference room.

& & & & & &

The meeting concluded at one o’clock, and Stark directed them back tomorrow. Bruce invited his houseguests to lunch and they accepted.

Bruce decided that _The Country Kitchen_ would be the most comfortable for his guests.

They were shown a corner table by owner George Standish. After the orders were taken, they settled into talk, careful to keep their voices low when discussing certain topics. The place was noisy with lunchtime diners, but it never hurt to be careful.

“I don’t like the way the general keeps sidestepping the breeding farms issue,” Lex said. “And the Hunt is ridiculous. What a waste.”

“Well, the factions are pretty clear in military and Gov circles,” Hal said. “Right now those who favor eradication have the upper hand.”

Lex tapped his fingers on the table. Bruce recognized the signs, his eyes sparkling in amusement. “You’re still trying to figure out a way to control the Kryptonians’ power?”

“Yes, they’d make magnificent Warriors.” Lex sighed, a smile curving his lips. “Just think of all that power under your command, your very fingertips, in your bed…”

Bruce shivered. It was a strong aphrodisiac, the thought of such power under one’s control.

He glanced at Clark, who was quietly eating his salad.

“Tempting, indeed, Lex, but I’m quite satisfied with what I have in my bed right now. More than satisfied, in fact.”

Bruce smiled at the pink flush of Clark’s cheeks at the words.

“You’re right, Bruce. Your ka _’tare_ is magnificence itself.” 

The other diners were engaged in conversation and missed the low voice. Bruce turned around in his chair. “Hello, Dax.”

“Hello, Bruce.”

Bruce noticed that Clark was still relaxed. Usually he was tense around the Rigellian. “Is Harvey with you?” This time there was tension. 

“No, I’m meeting friends here.” Dax’s hand rested on the back of Clark’s chair but Clark didn’t flinch.

“You’re right about my Prize, Dax.” Bruce understood the meaning and pronunciation of the word that Dax had used. 

Dax’s violet eyes sparkled with amusement. “May I speak freely?”

Bruce recognized the Rigellian euphemism. ‘Freely’ meant ‘explicitly’.

“Sure,” he said, curious to hear his colleague’s ideas.

Dax leaned forward and whispered, “When your ka _’tare_ parts his legs for you, his flawless skin gleaming with sweat from your passion, his mouth swollen from your kisses and ready to take your cock, are you not a Master of a Jewel of Great Price?”

Bruce’s cock twitched. Licking his lips, he said steadily, “Yes.”

Amusement laced Dax’s voice. “What if you commanded him to disrobe right now, go to his knees, rub his face against your groin…?”

Bruce bit back a moan.

Dax smiled as he withdrew, winking at a flushed Bruce. “Thank you for allowing me to speak…freely…Bruce.”

“My ka _’tare_ and I thank you.”

Dax chuckled as he moved to join his friends at another table.

Bruce turned back around, glad that no one had noticed his conversation.

Well, almost no one.

“Master, would you like my glass of water?”

Bruce looked at his own empty glass. “Yes, thank you.” He needed to cool down somehow.

Clark’s small smile delighted Bruce. So his Prize had heard! Bruce’s mind raced to the evening ahead.

& & & & & &

Steve and Hal entered the Gotham Art Museum, the quiet a stark contrast to the noisy revelry outside. Their footsteps echoed on the polished floor, marble columns gleaming under the vaulted ceiling. An ancient Greek mosaic was roped off, occupying the center of the marble floor. The ceiling sported a Renaissance fresco and several Victorian-era circus posters were framed on the walls, advertising a planned exhibit in the spring.

The current exhibit was advertised on a free-standing sign. **Amazons In Chains** was emblazoned in red on a blue background. Hal picked up a catalogue and flipped through it. “They have paintings, sculpture, and photographs. Should be interesting.”

Steve picked up a catalogue, too. He frowned as he perused it. “Looks like all contemporary studies.”

“Well, I told you. They’re not about to emphasize the Amazons’ Warrior past. They want people to see them as slaves.”

The men started walking down the corridor toward the exhibit.

“Yes, the Government’s made sure they turned Paradise Island into a brothel for the idle rich and high-ranking brass.”

“Yeah.”

They entered the first room of the exhibit, quickly becoming immersed in the paintings and sculpture.

“Not all contemporary after all,” Steve said. “They range from 1863 to the present.”

“Figures, as 1863 is the year they were conquered.”

“Weird to think they’re immortal.”

“If I was a slave, I wouldn’t be too keen on being an immortal.”

“Hmm, point taken.” 

They moved on to the next sculpture, a full-length marble of a regal woman, her dignity belying her nudity and chains. Steve frowned. “That pose of hers is familiar.” He checked the catalogue. “Ah ha! It’s the same pose as the Hiram Powers’ statue, ‘The Greek Slave’.” 

Hal frowned, then his eyes brightened. “That was a statue that caused quite a fuss during the Victorian era, right?”

Steve nodded. “The statue’s nudity was unusual in the way that the Victorians accepted it. They considered it ‘pure’ and ‘innocent’, and it went on exhibit all across the country with many copies being made. Of course, that was the _official_ story.”

“Yeah, a nude young girl in chains must have been of prurient interest.”

“Well, the pornography industry in Victorian America was pretty widespread. They were the masters of hypocrisy, and the sexual side of life was the most hidden and hypocritical of all.”

Hal studied the statue. “This isn’t some young innocent.”

Steve consulted the catalogue again. “You’re right. It’s Queen Hippolyta.” 

“It’s a beautiful statue.”

Steve agreed. As Hal continued to study the statue, Steve moved on to paintings, then stopped at another statue.

This slave was kneeling, wrists chained behind her back, her nude body in profile, head turned, hair obscuring part of her face by falling softly over one eye. 

Steve felt a strange lightheadedness. He took a step closer, a frown creasing his brow.

The woman’s face.

The sculptor was very talented. Despite the marble, one could almost see the skin tones of the woman. The curve of hip and breast looked warm, not stone-cold.

The face was haunting. A nobility shone through despite the collar and bracelets. He half-expected to see sullenness, but the eyes reflected a calmness that almost suggested serenity. No shame, no contempt, perhaps a touch of anger?

Steve studied the face for a long time.

“Steve?”

Steve jumped. “Oh, sorry, Hal.”

“She’s beautiful woman” Hal tilted his head. “Something about her…”

“I know.”

“Says here she’s the daughter of the Queen.”

“The Queen?”

“Yeah. Her name’s Diana.”

“The name fits,” Steve said almost dreamily.

“Hey.” Hal touched his arm. “We’ve got more to see.”

Steve reluctantly allowed Hal to lead him away.

The next room featured photographs. Hal read off the different time periods: Civil War, Gilded Age, Edwardian, the Great Depression, World War II, the Korean War, the New Frontier…the Amazons remained the same, immortal and unchanging, yet enslaved for hundreds of years, and for hundreds of years to come…

Steve found the Princess in a photograph. She was clothed in a Greek-style dress, the gauzy material offering tantalizing glimpses of her body, which Steve appreciated, but once again he was drawn to her face.

A slight smile curved her lips, an almost kittenish quality about her that disturbed Steve.

_It’s almost as if she’s posing as a whore in defiance._

It was an odd thought and probably totally off-base, but the statue and photograph had a haunting quality to them.

“Can’t believe they’ve been conquered for so long,” Hal murmured.

Steve had been so absorbed by the photograph that he hadn’t heard Hal walk up beside him.

“1863 was a long time ago.”

“Right.” Hal softly rattled off the facts, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. “Confederate Admiral Matthew Stark and his men ran ashore on Paradise Island. The Amazons insisted that they stay aboard, because men were forbidden to set foot on the island. They laid out a carpet and Stark used it to meet the Queen.

“He learned about the Bracelets of Submission, their interest in the American Civil War, and how they supported the North.”

“If the Bracelets…” Steve looked at the cold metal encircling the Princess’ wrists “…are linked together, the Amazons lose their strength.”

Hal nodded. “Stark managed to bind Hippolyta, his men swarmed from their ship, and…”

Steve felt queasy as he could only imagine what the Amazons had suffered during the conquering rampage. He became aware of Hal’s hand on his shoulder.

& & & & & &

An hour later, as they were leaving the museum, Steve paused in the lobby and looked at the various pamphlets advertising upcoming exhibits, tourist attractions, and conferences. One in particular intrigued him and he scooped it up, hurrying to catch up to Hal.

& & & & & &

With Hal and Steve in town and Lex in the study on a business call, Ollie and Bruce were alone in the library enjoying drinks.

“Interesting meeting today,” Ollie said.

“Very.” Bruce sipped his iced tea. He would take a glass of wine at dinner but had to keep a clear head for his nocturnal activities. “At least there aren’t any more skirmishes on the Rim.”

“You know the Cold War way of things, Bruce. There will always be incidents somewhere, hit-and-runs, and then the little wars that threaten to become big and hot wars.”

“Like the Virillian War four years ago?”

Ollie nodded. “A brush fire, except for the people caught up in it. Our forces did well. Hal and Steve were decorated for their heroism as young hotshot pilots fresh out of the Academy.”

Bruce smiled, then he glanced toward the painting of his parents. Ollie understood that pain. He raised a glass. Bruce stood still for a moment, then raised his glass, too.

After they drank, Ollie said, “Quite a legacy they left.”

“Yes.” 

“It’s hard to live up to at times.”

Bruce knew that Ollie understood. “Yes.”

They were both contemplative for a few moments, then Ollie smiled. “I think that doing you a favor in obtaining Melody has brightened my Household. I’m going to have her start academic lessons next week.”

“How much does she know?”

“Not too much. It’ll practically be from Square One as to reading and writing. She’s a bright little thing.”

“I’m glad. Clark was delighted to learn that she’s residing at Queensland.”

“Excellent. And speaking of Clark…” they sat down on the couch, Bruce refilling their glasses from the pitcher on the silver tray that Alfred had provided “…he obviously has education as he serves as your secretary. Lex and I were impressed by the report he’d written for our last Gov meeting. My notes were hardly as well-organized as his. He’s got a flair for writing.” 

Pride shone in Bruce’s eyes. “He does.”

“I know he can get muzzy due to his illness, but there’s a sharp intelligence there, Bruce.”

“I know. Clark and I discuss books we’ve read, articles in the print and e-papers, all sorts of things.”

Ollie was pleased that hid old friend had found an intellectual companion in the alluring form of his pleasure slave. “You’ve got it all in one package.”

Bruce laughed softly and sipped his tea. “I can agree with that wholeheartedly.”

Ollie laughed, too. “Well, his primary role’s attributes are obvious, but he seems like a good, gentle person.” 

“That’s accurate.”

“I wonder if his shyness is because of his status or is natural to him?”

“I’d say natural to some extent, though as you say, the manacles can cloak a slave’s real personality. Still there’s a goodness to Clark that would be there, free or not.”

Ollie felt uneasy. That goodness made Clark vulnerable in an oft-cruel world.

He leaned back. “I must say, Bruce, Halloween in Gotham is very intriguing. Your city seems to attract…interesting…people.”

Bruce laughed. “Yes, like the Abolitionist convention last week.”

“Exactly.” Ollie’s eyes sparkled. “Did you attend?”

Bruce snorted. “Only in disguise.”

“Well, they’re not all flakes. Your cousin Kathy is involved, isn’t she?”

Bruce nodded. “She’s the state chapter head.”

Ollie glanced at the painting. “Your parents weren’t slave-huggers, but didn’t they make a change from slaves to free help except for Alfred?”

“Yes.” Bruce stared down at his drink. “Ollie, can I rely on your discretion?”

“Always, Bruce.”

Bruce looked up, a small smile on his face. “Thank you.” He let out a small sigh. “My father owned a pleasure slave, a beautiful young man named Jeremy. My mother had one as well, a lovely young woman. Anyway, my parents had an argument one night. I was six at the time. I heard loud voices but couldn’t make out the words.

“Soon after my parents sold off the slaves except for Alfred, including their pleasure slaves. They never owned bedslaves again.” Bruce looked directly at Ollie. “When I grew older…after they were gone...I’d heard whispers in Society that my father…had fallen in love with Jeremy.” 

Ollie’s stomach fluttered. He had heard the rumors years ago, but they were generally regarded as false. Now it appeared that they might be true.

“So you think that was the reason behind their change from slaves to freemen?”

Bruce rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know. Mom had always been interested in the work of the Abolitionists. Maybe Dad falling in love with his slave gave her the perfect opportunity to implement changes she was already considering. Maybe she did it out of revenge. Then again, maybe the rumors were just rumors and Mom and Dad changed their domestic policy purely out of principle.” Bruce took a long draught of his iced tea. “I really don’t know.”

Ollie felt uneasy again. Masters falling in love with their slaves was a problem. It was one thing for a slave to fall in love with a Master, but the other way around…

A Master could be kind, considerate, even affectionate toward a slave. Love? Perhaps one could say, “I love my dedicated, loyal slave to pieces,” but saying one was in love with a slave meant loss of status, ridicule, and other social disasters. The higher the social status, the greater the fall. 

If Thomas had been guilty, Martha Wayne would have been furious with her husband because while pleasure slaves were allowed to married couples (in fact, it was practically required at that social level), Thomas falling in love with his slave humiliated her and tarnished the Wayne name.

“’Falling in love with a slave…”

“…is like falling in love with a piece of furniture’, I know,” Bruce completed the old saying.

Ollie carefully looked for signs that Bruce had fallen in love with Clark. He was certainly protective of and affectionate toward the beautiful young man gracing his bed, but that didn’t mean there was romance involved. Ollie hoped that was the case. It would not be an easy path for his friend otherwise.

& & & & & &

 _Ollie grinned as he gave Dinah a kiss, then rose from their bed. He pulled on a green robe, his lips still curved in a smile, then it faded as he asked, “Pretty Bird, how much do you know about the old gossip on the Waynes?”_

_“Old gossip?” Dinah frowned, then she asked, “You mean…about Thomas Wayne and his slave?”_

_“Yeah.” Ollie turned to look at his lady, her dark hair spilling over her breasts._

_“The speculation is that he fell in love with his bedslave.” Ollie winced. “Yes, I know.” Dinah sat up. “But no one ever knows for sure. The Waynes did get rid of all their slaves except Alfred. Still, the family has had a history of abolitionist leanings. I mean, Bruce’s cousin Kathy Kane is prominent in the movement.” Dinah frowned. “Do you think that Bruce might be…in love…with his bedslave?”_

_Ollie shrugged. “Who knows?”_

_“Let’s hope not. That wouldn’t be easy.”_

_“No kidding…” A small knock on the door made Ollie smile. “Come in, Little Pretty.” Dinah slipped on her robe._

_Melody came in, carrying a breakfast tray, a huge smile on her face. Ollie ruffled her hair as Dinah took the tray._

& & & & & &

Bruce smiled as if reading his friend’s mind. “Don’t worry, I’m not that far gone yet.”

Ollie relaxed. “Still, beauty and intelligence isn’t bad in one delicious package, eh?” He winked.

Bruce laughed. “Yes, I’m pretty lucky.”

As if on cue Clark appeared. “Master, do you require anything else?”

Bruce’s eyes glittered. “No, not right now.” After Clark nodded and left, Bruce said softly, “Not until tonight, my Prize.”

& & & & & &

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bio of Hiram Powers and a picture of The Greek Slave can be found here: pihttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hiram_Powers 
> 
> Victorian dichotomy: http://www.assumption.edu/whw/IconsFemale/TheGreekSlave.html


	12. Caring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark is tired but still wants to serve in every way.

_Gentle is my touch,  
Because  
I love you,  
So much._

  


**Emily Adams Cutler  
"Yellow Roses And Other Poems"   
1859 C.E.**

Clark served dinner, Hal and Steve back from the city. Everything went flawlessly until a wave of dizziness hit him and he set the Hal’s plate down heavily, a clunking noise slightly jarring the conversation. Bruce frowned and Clark flushed pink in embarrassment. 

Once out of the dining room he leaned back against the wall of the corridor, closing his eyes. He was lucky his symptoms were relatively mild on this day before a shot.

Pushing away from the wall, he opened his eyes and headed for the kitchen.

“I have a new basket of rolls ready, Clark…” Alfred paused. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Clark smiled to cover his distress.

Alfred’s keen eyes were on him. “Perhaps you would like to get some fresh air.”

Clark hesitated, glancing outside, then said, “I’ll just go outside for a minute.”

Clark took deep lungfuls of air as he stood outside, wearing a coat. The crispness of autumn air excited him, wind blowing through his hair. He heard the waves crashing on the rocks below and watched as a pinpoint of light streaked across the sky among the stars. He wished that he could stay out longer but he needed to get back inside. Feeling a little better, he returned to the kitchen.

& & & & & &

“So, was the exhibit worth the price of admission?” Ollie asked.

“Definitely,” Hal said. “Some truly marvelous works of art.”

“The Amazon story is an interesting one.” Bruce buttered a wheat roll. 

“Very. However, this show concentrated on history from 1863 onward.”

“Isn’t that when Paradise Island was conquered?”

“Yes,” Steve said.

“Hmm, seems a pity.”

“Very much.”

Ollie took a bite of salmon. “I suppose the Amazons should be grateful they didn’t get the same treatment as the Kryptonians.”

Lex snorted. “If General Stark had been there, they would have.”

“I think his ancestor was the lead conqueror.” Hal lifted his wineglass.

“Interesting tidbit of information there.”

“The Amazons were great Warriors,” Bruce said.

“I suspect they still are from what we saw today.” Hal looked at Steve, who nodded.

“Really? Why?”

“They aren’t completely cowed. There is a spark of defiance in them, even after almost 400 years of slavery.”

“And they’ve lived every one of those 400 years.”

Ollie shivered. It would be bad enough to be manacled, but to live that way for four centuries! And he knew that they were all used as sex slaves for cruise ships full of eager customers several times a year, not to count the special privileges granted military brass and soldiers given a special reward.

Clark returned with a new basket of warm rolls, removing the empty one. Pink cheeks gave him a fresh-faced look, and every man at the table noticed, though they kept their interest low-key.

Ollie watched as he poured fresh glasses of wine, detecting a slight tremble when Clark refilled his glass. The wine shimmered in the glass. 

_Probably nerves after that little **faux pas.**_

“Tomorrow is our last meeting. I’d like to take you around the city the next evening for some of the Halloween Happenings.”

“Sounds good to me,” Hal said.

& & & & & &

Clark was tired. He had eaten his dinner and helped Alfred clean up. His small burst of energy after his quick outdoor trip was gone. He was looking forward to some sleep before Bruce came to him.

Bruce walked into the kitchen. His smile was predatory and he rested his hand between Clark’s legs in a proprietary gesture as he nuzzled Clark’s ear.

“I want you in the proper position when I come up in a few minutes.” Bruce gently nibbled Clark’s earlobe. “I need to prepare you for tonight.”

Clark felt a little thrill. He gasped slightly as Bruce gently stroked him, pleased that his Master was in such an amorous mood. He wished that he was feeling better, but his physical status was of little consequence.

_"A slave is never sick."_

Of course his trainer knew that was unrealistic. What was meant was that unless your illness was severe or noticeable, a slave didn’t trifle his Master with ailments or complaints.

Bruce gave him a little pat and removed his hand, his eyes glittering. 

Clark actually felt a little better. He smiled and headed upstairs.

Up in the bedroom he began to disrobe after performing his evening ablutions. ‘Proper position’. He hadn’t been in that position for awhile now. Usually Bruce came to him when he had already been in bed for hours.

Clark smiled. Bruce wanted him in the traditional position. Well, that was easy enough to do.

A little pang went through him. He couldn’t have Bruce’s love, but he could have his undivided attention, at least after the Batman was done with him for the night.

Clark deposited his clothes in the hamper, then knelt by the bed after removing his glasses. He rested his hands on his thighs, manacles cold against his skin. He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths, trying to calm his excitement. He listened but heard no footsteps. He allowed himself a few more minutes, then slid his arms around his back, crossing his wrists. He bowed his head, spreading his legs wide.

Open.

Ready.

Waiting. 

& & & & & &

Bruce’s hand cupped his chin. Clark hadn’t heard him come upstairs.

_Must be the stealth of the Bat._

Nervous energy skittered along his limbs as Bruce lifted his head up. He remembered Dax Mantell’s words and rubbed his cheek against Bruce’s palm, Bruce remembering the words, too. He pressed Clark’s head forward and Clark rubbed his face between Bruce’s legs, inhaling his scent. Bruce’s fingers carded through his hair, then his head was pulled back.

“You’re a very wanton slut, aren’t you?”

Amusement curved Clark’s lips. “As long as I’m your wanton slut, Master, I am content.”

Bruce laughed. “Up on the bed, my naughty Starchild.”

Bruce helped Clark up, giving him a firm slap on the buttocks, then gently pushed his slave onto his back. Bruce took out the chains and stretched Clark’s arms, starting to lock the chains, then he paused. He touched a hand to Clark’s cheek.

“You’re tired.”

Clark nuzzled his hand. “I’ll be fine after I get some sleep, Master.”

Bruce left the chains unlocked. “I want you to be very comfortable and get some sleep. You’ll need it,” he winked. 

Clark nodded, love welling up inside him. Bruce was usually so considerate! If only that consideration could be that of a lover instead of a Master.

A sharp pang of sadness hit him.

Bruce cocked his head. “Why so sad, my Starchild?” He touched the single tear that glittered on Clark’s cheek.

“I…I’m sorry, Master. Just…” Clark strained to kiss Bruce’s hand, and Bruce brought his fingers closer to his slave’s lips “…I wish to serve you with all (my heart) that I have.”

“You do,” Bruce said softly. “Here, curl up and relax.”

Bruce pulled the covers up over Clark, who had curled up and sighed as he got comfortable. Bruce ran his fingers through his slave’s hair, kissing Clark’s temple. “Sleep well,” he whispered.

Clark listened to him leave, then allowed the sounds of the house to drift over him: the murmur of voices, the sound of footsteps on the foyer’s polished parquet floor, a door closing down the hall. Wind rattled the windows, Clark praying that Bruce would be safe on his patrol.

He didn’t like admitting physical weakness. He was sensitive about his illness and how it could interfere with his duties. And he didn’t want to let Bruce down, either as slave or lover. 

He let the peace wash over him, slowly drifting to sleep as he waited for the man he loved to come to him…


	13. Emerald And Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman encounters a visitor in town while he’s distracted by thoughts of Clark.

_The archer stood,  
Bold as brass,  
Robin Hood,  
Clear as glass._

  


**Marion Zimmer Grayson  
"Tales of Maid Marian"   
2116 C.E.**

XBatman watched the crowds below, cape flowing out behind him in the wind. The nights were cold and crisp, just the way he liked them.

The Gotham Police Department was showing its colors by patrolling the streets in pairs on foot and horseback. The mayor had politely declined the offer of Government troops, publicly announcing his complete confidence in his Police Commissioner and his troops. Batman respected Jim Gordon immensely. He would do a fine job, but it never hurt to help. 

A flash of green startled him, and a lithe, costumed figure alighted on the roof several feet away.

“Hello, Batman.” White teeth gleamed in the darkness. “Happy Halloween.”

Batman scowled, hiding his interest. He had seen pictures of Green Arrow, but in-the- flesh was always better.

_And it’s nice flesh, too._

Green Arrow was similar in height and weight to him, powerful arms banded in green leather and hands gauntleted. The green leather boots, pants, and jerkin gave him a Robin Hood look, complete with jaunty cap. His eyes were hidden by the domino mask, white lenses keeping him enigmatic. Thick blond hair curled around his face, a goatee projecting a rakish look.

“Nice bow.”

Green Arrow grinned. “Thanks.”

Batman could see that the bow’s wood was expensive. Green Arrow handled it with the ease of long practice.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was in town for the festivities and decided to do a little night work.”

Batman scowled again. “I don’t do the partner thing.”

“No?” Green Arrow sounded amused. “I’m not proposing marriage here, just want to help out.”

Batman cocked his head. “Why are you flying solo without the Canary?”

“She’s taking care of Star City.”

Batman turned back to surveying the crowd. It disturbed him that he had been taken by surprise. 

_Quit thinking about Clark and focus on business._

Green Arrow walked closer to the edge of the building. “Everything seems fine so far.” When the silence continued, he said, “Not very talkative, are you?” He grinned at the Bat’s stubborn silence. Turning around, he asked, “Are you going to stake out the street or patrol?”

“If you’d like to patrol, go ahead.”

Green Arrow laughed. “Okay, Bats. See you later.”

Batman watched as the Emerald Archer used his own version of a grappling hook to swing away.

Laughter and shouts echoed up from below as the revelers partied, costumes glittering with beads and sequins, feathers bobbing in the wind. The glitter of silver brought him back to Clark, his silvery Starchild all beautiful and gentle and sweet…

A scream snapped him back to the present. He saw the gaily-costumed figure carrying a purse run off the main street, dodging into an alley. Batman took off, swooping down to grab at the spangled sleeve and turned the thief around.

Green hair and a ghoulish grin greeted him.

“Joker!”

“Happy Halloween, Batman!”

A swift move by the Joker amidst maniacal laughter and Batman staggered back, coughing as the dust numbed him. He feared the rictus of a Jokerish grin, but he was more disoriented than anything.

By the time he had recovered, the Joker was long gone.

& & & & & &

Rage pounded through his veins. He had been sloppy and because of that, the Joker had gotten away.

He had no illusion about the petty crime. The Clown Prince of Crime looked to keep his hand in on such basic things in between the grand supervillain schemes.

Batman searched the city but the Joker had gone to ground.

He would resurface again.

_Maybe I should have let Green Arrow stay._

Disgusted, Batman returned home.

& & & & & &

Hal slipped into Steve’s room, his skin glistening from a shower. He was wearing his robe and slippers and nothing else. He winked at Steve, who was in his boxers, blond hair wet from his own shower as he set aside a pamphlet.

“Up for some company?”

Blue eyes sparkled as Steve laughed. “’Up’, huh?”

Hal laughed gently. He walked over to the bed. “What’s this?” He picked up the pamphlet. “The One-Day Abolitionist Conference in Metropolis?”

Steve looked a little embarrassed. “I picked it up on the way out of the museum.”

Hal flipped through the glossy pages. “You thinking of going?”

“I’ll probably be back in D.C. by then.”

Hal put the pamphlet on the nightstand. “Just be careful, Stevie. It’s not wise for a man in the military to show interest in this issue.”

“I know. ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’.” Steve grimaced.

“It’s a stupid policy, but it’s the one we’ve got.” Hal combed his fingers through waves of yellow silk, Steve relaxing under his touch and smiling. He leaned forward and they kissed, gently, then passionately, as robes were discarded and slippers kicked off, Steve laying back on the bed while Hal rained kisses on his face and caressed broad shoulders, happiness filling him as they made love…

& & & & & &

Still furious with himself, Bruce came upstairs, pausing as he saw his beautiful slave still curled up under the covers in a deep sleep.

Bruce quietly walked over to the window, crossing his arms as he gazed out over the moonlit ocean.

He’d been distracted tonight, and the Joker had gotten away. Clark had been the distraction. Did he deserve a reward for sloppy work? Losing focus was unacceptable.

“Master?”

Bruce turned. “Ah, so you’re awake, my ka _’tare.”_

Clark chuckled at the use of the Rigellian term. The very loose translation that could be applied was similar to ‘Prize’ in English, a term he preferred to ‘whore’! But either way, Bruce was showing him respect that filled him with pride. He moved his limbs, the chains rattling.

Damn! You’re not making this easy, Clark.

Bruce walked over to the bed, gripping one leg through the blankets. “Have you rested well?”

“Very well.” The husky voice amused Bruce.

Clark threw off the covers, glittering chains draped over his nude body, moonlight silvering metal and skin. There was something extremely sensuous about his slave curled up with the chains snaked around that perfect body. Bruce stroked Clark’s leg, slipping up to his thigh. He stroked the inner flesh, glad that no previous owner had branded him. He much preferred Clark unmarked.

Except by him, and not with a branding iron.

“Master, _please…”_

The pleading sent tingles along Bruce’s spine. He slipped his hand up to cup Clark’s cock, already showing signs of arousal. With his other hand he took off his slave’s dark glasses, heart leaping as he saw the sparkling eyes framed by the long lashes.

Still fully clothed, he climbed up on the bed, kneeling between Clark’s legs as his companion rolled onto his back and spread his legs. He gently pumped and stroked the beautiful cock, Clark’s face enraptured as he writhed and moaned. While one hand paid tribute to the burgeoning manhood, Bruce’s other hand tweaked and pinched Clark’s nipples. He nuzzled Clark’s ear, then spread his slave’s arms and locked the chains.

Clark’s helplessness under his touch fueled Bruce’s lust, his hand more insistent as he stroked Clark to climax, his slave arching up, smiling as pearly seed spilled over his hand. He cleaned his hand off with tissues, eyes glittering as he slowly undressed, tossing his clothes onto the floor. Clark’ tongue ran over his lips, his eyes following his Master’s every move.

Bruce locked the ankle chains but kept them loose enough to give Clark some freedom of movement while still restraining him. With deliberate care, he coated his cock with the cream from the bedside table, also preparing Clark, his fingers stroking and stretching as his slave moaned in pleasure.

He slid his cock into tight heat, reveling in the electricity sparking along his nerves, his blood singing as he crooned little nonsense words and Clark pleaded and moaned, the jangle of chains striking a chord in Bruce’s groin as he came, deep and hard and _hot…_


	14. Wings Enfolding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce discovers an ally.

_The Bat’s wings  
Slipped like silk,  
Sibilant-soft,  
All enfolding._

  


  
The Freedom Chronicles   
2363 C.E.

Ollie worked steadily on the treadmill while Steve and Hal worked out on the mats. Lex was doing sit-ups, and Clark was using the rowing machine. Bruce was out for a morning run and breakfast would be served after he came back.

Ollie got off the treadmill and walked over to a bench laden with towels, passing Clark on the way.

“Mr. Queen.”

“Yes, Clark?”

Shyly, Clark said, “Thank you for your help with Melody.”

“You’re welcome.” Ollie picked up a towel. “Melody is an absolute doll.” 

“I’m glad she’s with you now.” His expression clouded. “I wish all the slaves on that estate could have a better life.”

Ollie crouched down beside Clark. “I know,” he said sympathetically. 

“She’s your Squire now?”

“Yes.” Ollie brightened. “She’s a bright little thing. Picks up things quickly. I have a tutor for her to learn to read and write.”

“Oh, that’s good.”

“You don’t require one.”

“No.” Clark smiled. “I love to read, and Master Bruce says my writing is exceptional.”

“It is.” Ollie wished he could see Clark’s eyes, but little wonder that Bruce kept him Veiled. “I’ve read your meeting reports. You seem to have a reporter’s skill.”

“You mean I could write for _The Gotham Gazette?”_ Clark said with a laugh.

“Oh, definitely.” Ollie wiped his face. “Are you coming to the meeting today?”

“Yes, my Master has requested it.”

Ollie knew that Bruce had formed it in the manner of a question as a small courtesy to Clark, because unless he asked him directly to make a choice, any ‘request’ was of course an order. Ollie felt a rush of affection for his friend. Bruce’s kindness made him exemplary.

“Good.” 

Clark watched the wrestling match. His lips curved into an amused smile.

“What?”

Clark leaned over and whispered, "They’re sleeping together.”

Sharing Clark’s amusement, Ollie asked, “Oh?”

Clark nodded. “I don’t know if it’s love, but their bodies know each other.”

_Hmm, seems a pleasure slave has good bedroom instincts outside of the bedroom._

He winked at Clark, who grinned. 

Ollie watched Hal and Steve move, and he concluded that Clark could be right. He stood up and Clark finished his set. Bruce would be back soon and they needed to shower.

Clark stood up, suddenly staggering. Ollie shot out an arm and steadied him.

“Clark?”

“I…sorry. Just a little…dizzy.”

Ollie studied his face, again wishing he could see Clark’s eyes. “Are you all right?”

“I…it’s my illness.”

“Ah.” Ollie remembered the slave broker, Silas Bracken, letting Clark’s prospective buyers know about his disease. “Can you still come into town?”

“I should.” Clark took a deep breath. “I don’t have a headache. I’m just a little woozy.” He grabbed Ollie’s arm as he tilted again. “I had my shot this morning and sometimes I have a reaction.”

_Poor soul._

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Clark’s smile was wan. “Thank you, Mr. Queen.”

“Do you need help to get upstairs?”

“Would you mind terribly?”

“No.”

Ollie helped Clark out of the gym and up the stairs, their pace slow and careful. When they reached the bedroom, Ollie asked, “Are you sure you can come with us?”

“Yes.” Clark smiled in thanks. “My Master expects me to accompany him.”

“Not if you’re sick.”

“If I can’t make it, I’ll tell him.”

Ollie nodded. “Very well.” He smiled. “Bruce is a very lucky man.” He laughed at Clark’s blush. _Oh, Bruce, you **do** have a Prize_. “I trust your judgment.”

“Thank you.”

Ollie watched as Clark moved under his own power, then went to his own room. His private bathroom gave him an edge over the others, who had to share a bathroom down the hall. 

As he stood in the shower, he thought of last night. Meeting Batman for the first time had been a thrill.

_Grumpy old Bat._

Ollie was amused by the Bat’s territorialism. So be it. That wouldn’t stop him from showing up again.

After his shower he combed his wet hair, pleased at his reflection. His hair was short now, his face clean-shaven. As the Green Arrow he wore a wig of thick, longer hair and a false beard. Still blond, but hopefully different enough to throw people off.

His Pretty Bird wore a blond wig over her brunette hair and had suggested the idea. He always listened to his Pretty Bird.

Smiling, he selected his clothing for the day and his thoughts turned back to Clark. He hoped that the slave was all right. Wertham’s Disease was not an easy illness to live with, but at least Clark seemed healthy most of the time.

He finished dressing and went down for breakfast.

& & & & & &

Clark showered, relieved that his dizziness seemed to have passed. He didn’t have a blinding headache or nausea, so he should be able to go into the city with his Master.

He was looking forward to it. He liked the four men who were Wayne Manor’s houseguests, and they were all courteous to him.

He had done a little research on the astronauts, learning about their heroism during the Verillion War. They were decorated heroes, leading their men into battle and essentially creating a turning point for the Empire and eventual victory.

Clark stepped out of the shower, thinking about the general lack of arrogance on the part of the two men when he heard, “Now that’s a way to start the day.”

Bruce was smiling and Clark blushed but smiled, too. He preened a little and Bruce laughed.

Clark left the bathroom to Bruce, dressing in the bedroom and heading downstairs, a little smile on his face.

& & & & & &

Clark enjoyed the day, meticulously taking notes. The meeting itself stuck to the nuts-and-bolts of armament production, Clark glad for the sheets of information Bruce would give him. That way he did not have to frantically scribble down numbers, simply concentrating on the comments made about those numbers.

Clark was grateful that his body seemed to be cooperating today. He had no headache, only a touch of nausea, and the dizziness seemed to have left him.

He was happy to be part of the group, grateful for their kindness to him. He had seen slaves in the street treated shabbily and was relieved to be part of a group that seemed to frown upon such behavior.

The meeting was long, Elias Stark insistent upon detailed reports. He claimed there were no more attacks on the Outer Rim, but Clark wondered if that should be believed. Despite the high security clearances of everyone in the room, the military did not always trust civilians.

His own clearance was guaranteed because if he talked, his tongue would be cut out and he would be executed in a most painful manner. Therefore, he thought wryly, his silence was pretty much assured.

When the meeting was over, Bruce beckoned him over. Plans were being discussed for the evening.

“Please feel free to remain in town. I’m afraid I can’t stay, but I promise that tomorrow night I will give you a proper tour of the street theater that is Gotham.”

“That’s a promise?” asked Hal.

“It is,” Bruce said with a grin.

“Deal. Steve and I have to work on our report tonight, anyway.”

“And I have a conference call,” Lex said.

“Me, too,” added Ollie.

“Then it’s agreed.” Bruce’s hand brushed Clark’s. “And there is the Harvest Ball on All Hallow’s Eve.”

“Looking forward to it.”

& & & & & &

Once back at the Manor, everyone set about their tasks after dinner. When their business was completed, Bruce’s guests decided to turn in early. There would be little sleep the next few nights, so extra rest sounded good.

Bruce went out on patrol, searching for the Joker. He hadn’t chained Clark, preferring to lessen his distractions.

He slipped through the worst parts of town, shaking down snitches and letting his presence be known, but the Joker was nowhere to be found.

“’Evening, Batman.”

Batman grimaced as he alighted on a rooftop overlooking Knickerbocker Square.

“Are you still in town?”

Green Arrow laughed. “You’re really not very sociable, are you?”

“No.”

The archer grinned. “Good thing I have enough joviality for both of us, then.”

Batman snorted. His cape billowed out behind him as a cold wind blew.

The silence stretched out between them, but oddly enough it wasn’t awkward. Batman took the opportunity to observe his colleague. Green Arrow seemed alert, his bow at the ready as he watched the revelers down below, one bent leg up on the edge of the roof.

Bruce frowned. Something about the posture reminded him of someone.

“Pickpocket!” came a cry from below.

Bruce broke out of his reverie. “Only one?” Green Arrow nodded. “Let’s go.”

The two of them followed the thief as he slipped into an alley. Batman was disappointed that it wasn’t the Joker. He disliked that psychopath running around loose, especially when his own distraction had allowed it.

Green Arrow selected an arrow from his quiver and set the bow. He let the arrow go, the shaft burying itself in the thief’s shoulder, the man crying out as he fell.

“Tranquilizer,” Arrow said.

They descended to the dirty alley, Green Arrow removing his equipment and replacing it into the quiver. Batman hauled the numb miscreant to his feet.

“He’ll be out for a little while.”

“Mmm,” Batman draped the thief over a garbage can. “I see a policeman.”

Batman strode to the end of the alley, startling a patrolman. The officer followed Gotham’s protector, eyes widening at the sight of Green Arrow. 

“All yours, Officer,” rasped Batman.

“Thanks, Batman.”

The heroes left the alley via grapple lines and Batman said, “Handy equipment.”

“Thanks.”

& & & & & &

The rest of the evening passed with Batman and Green Arrow making two more collars. They parted in the wee hours of the morning, Batman swooping away as Green Arrow watched him go.

& & & & & &

Bruce put away his costume and headed upstairs. He wore a black turtleneck sweater and blue jeans, his sneakered feet quiet on the damp stone steps. He reached the top step behind the grandfather clock, opening it a crack.

Voices!

He strained to hear them and eventually recognized Steve’s voice…and Clark’s?

What was Clark doing out of bed? Was something wrong?

Bruce listened as he realized the voices were coming closer, their owners stopping right outside the library. Damnit! Now he was stuck in the drafty passageway.

He grew impatient. What was Steve doing up? Didn’t he go to bed early like the others?

“Sorry, I guess I just got this craving for some of that leftover apple pie.”

“That is a specialty of Alfred’s.”

Steve laughed. “You’re right! Would you like some?”

“I…yes, I would.”

The voices moved off and Bruce inched the clock door out. The library was empty.

He quickly slipped out of the clock and closed it, holding it tight to minimize any jangling. He checked the hall and strolled out and up the stairs.

& & & & & &

Steve insisted that Clark sit down while he served them both. He cut two pieces of pie and set the plates on the kitchen table, adding glasses of buttermilk. He sat down and picked up a fork.

“I hope I’m not making you uncomfortable. I don’t always know Master/slave protocol. I grew up in a middle-class household where there were definitely no slaves.” 

“No, eating with freemen is allowed.” Clark smiled slightly.

“Good.” Steve took a bite. “I usually don’t eat after I’ve gone to bed, but I woke up with a growling stomach.” He looked sheepish.

Clark laughed. “Well, there’s plenty of food here. Master Bruce would be pleased that you felt comfortable enough to partake.”

“What about Alfred?”

Clark chuckled. “That might be a different story.” He waved his hand. “Alfred’s the Master of this kitchen.” His lips curved into a smile. Steve guessed that his eyes were sparkling behind those dark glasses. “He’s probably Master of this house as well.”

Steve laughed. “You’re right.”

Steve had never felt completely comfortable around slaves, not exactly thrilled with the concept of owning sentient beings. He had little contact with them growing up in his school and neighborhood, but the military had brought him into closer contact. Slaves were used as foot soldiers and required training from their superiors. Steve had trained as a pilot but part of his officer’s training had obligated him to train slave soldiers.

_Slave soldiers! More like cannon fodder._

Images of battle flashed through his head and he dropped his fork.

“Are you all right, Major?”

Steve picked up the fork. “Just a little tired.”

“Ah. It _is_ late.”

Steve nodded as he slowly finished his pie. He watched Clark’s beautiful fingers manipulate the fork and glass. Bruce Wayne was a lucky bastard. This bedslave of his was beautiful, shy and intelligent.

They chatted for a few minutes more, then Steve said, “Thank you for keeping me company.”

“My pleasure, Major.”

Steve collected the plates and silverware. “Go on up to bed. You must be tired.”

“Thank you.”

& & & & & &

Clark walked into the bedroom and stopped as he saw his Master pacing. Bruce whirled around, a frown on his face.

“Close the door.”

Clark obeyed, then stood waiting.

Bruce’s arms were crossed as he approached his slave. “You know.”

Clark’s eyes widened. “Yes, Master.”

“How long have you known?”

“For the past two weeks.”

Bruce’s frown deepened. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Clark tried to stop the rapid pounding of his heart by taking a deep breath. “I…I thought you must have had a good reason not to tell me. I…I haven’t told anyone, Master, not even Alfred. I mean, I figure he knows, but I didn’t tell him that I know.” He added hopefully, “It was accidental, Master. I stumbled against the clock…”

Bruce started pacing again. Clark waited with nervous anticipation, twisting his hands in front of him.

Bruce stopped in front of Clark, his midnight-blue eyes searching Clark’s face after removing his slave’s glasses. Clark waited, steeling himself to accept any punishment that his Master deemed necessary. He had felt guilty about keeping the secret. He shouldn’t keep secrets from his Master.

“It’s okay.” Bruce’s tense posture relaxed. “You didn’t actively seek this out. And you told no one.” He cocked his head with a slight smile. “Good save tonight.”

Pride blossomed in Clark’s chest. “I’d heard someone go downstairs and I knew you were still out. I was worried that Steve might catch you, so I went downstairs, too.”

Bruce reached out and ran his finger down the side of Clark’s face. “Brains and beauty.”

Clark blushed but eagerly accepted his Beloved’s words, taking them and storing them away in his heart. If someday he should be deprived of this, he wanted the memories to be clear and precious as jewels on a summer’s morn so that he could take them out and enjoy them if his life grew cold and lonely.

Bruce’s fingers cupped his jaw. “So now you know the Bat lives here.”

A little shiver of excitement ran through Clark. “Yes, Master.”

The transformation awed him as he watched his kind and generous Master’s face set, his midnight-blue eyes growing hard and glittering. A rasping voice came out of his mouth as fingers entwined in his hair.

“Serve me.”

Clark went to his knees, a slight trembling in his limbs as his head was pushed forward, his face pressed against his Master’s groin.

_No, the Batman’s._

He breathed in the musky-scent, rubbing his cheek against the growing bulge in the Batman’s pants. Clark opened the clasp with his teeth, the rustling of cloth and a little help from the Dark Knight springing forth a very ready cock.

Clark licked the drops of pre-cum from the swollen head, the salty taste sliding down his throat. The cock brushed against his lips, then pushed into his mouth as he began to suck, sensing the power of the man standing over him. Without conscious thought he crossed his wrists behind his back, his robe opening to reveal smooth flesh.

Like a great dark cape, he felt a sense of protection as the Bat filled his mouth, his heart…his soul.

He swallowed the seed that was so familiar to him, the silken folds of the Bat’s cape falling around him protectively.

 _How poetic,_ Clark thought, the imaginary cape making him feel safe.

The cock slipped out of his mouth and he was pulled up by the hair, the Bat’s mouth crushing his as possession was taken and re-asserted. He stumbled slightly, strong hands keeping him upright as his mouth was plundered.

The kiss was broken and his robe was stripped off. He quickly kicked off his slippers and was shoved back onto the bed, his Master removing his clothes and looming over him with a dark majesty that excited Clark.

He groaned as his dark lover lay full-length on top of him, devouring his mouth again as their groins ground together. He tried to catch his breath but the Bat was relentless, taking every breath.

When they broke apart, Clark was gasping, then moaned as his nipples were tweaked. Clark writhed as the Bat nipped and licked his way down Clark’s chest and stomach, then his lover leaned down and growled in his ear, “Turn over.”

Clark obeyed instantly, anticipation building in him as his legs were yanked apart and he was prepared for the inevitable. Pleasure flooded him as the Bat claimed him, biting his neck and shoulders. A great happiness filled him along with his Master’s seed.

Hands caressed his neck and shoulders. 

He knew his Master.

 _All_ of him.


	15. Mad Waynes And Englishmen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lord of the Manor entertains his guests while keeping his Prize close to him.

_"People of Gotham County, take to your arms!  
The enemy are almost upon us!   
Fear not the Redcoats, for they are mere mortals.   
We have the love of Liberty on our side!"_

  


**General “Mad” Anthony Wayne  
June, 1775 C.E.**

When Bruce awoke, he found himself watching Clark sleep.

_He knows._

Somehow the knowledge that Clark now knew of his double life did not disturb him. He gently caressed his slave’s hair, loving the way the sunlight always kissed Clark’s skin. He was glad that he had forgotten to close the curtains last night.

_I’d better keep him unchained for the rest of the house party._

He was pleased to have a new ally in addition to Alfred. He could trust Clark, even beyond that of a slave loyal to his Master.

When Clark awoke, he blinked and found Bruce smiling at him. He felt a surge of love and reached out, Bruce taking his hand. Bruce continued to smile, running his fingers through Clark’s hair as he squeezed his hand.

Clark’s eyes sparkled. “Can I get a tour of the Batcave?”

Bruce burst out laughing. “After our guests have gone.”

Clark kissed him, his excitement making him more charming than ever.

Bruce’s eyes twinkled. “As much as I would like to fuck you senseless, my dear, we should get going and work out before breakfast.”

Clark slipped closer, playful and teasing. He nipped Bruce’s ear and whispered, “Are you sure we have to get up? No meeting today.”

Bruce’s amusement continued at this coquettishness. Who knew that the Bat could be such an aphrodisiac? He cupped Clark’s chin. “I have to see to my guests today.”

Clark pouted and Bruce laughed again. He kissed him and squeezed his shoulder. “Get into your work-out clothes. Though…” he cocked his head, “…nude gymnastics could be interesting.”

Clark blushed and kissed Bruce’s hand. “Whatever you will, Master.”

Bruce kissed the top of Clark’s head. “If I ever host an orgy, I’ll feature you as the star attraction.”

“Thank you,” Clark said dryly.

Bruce grinned and spanked him. “Get going.” Clark obeyed, heading for the bathroom.

Bruce relaxed into the pillows, pleased at how everything had turned out. Clark knowing that he was the Batman would not jeopardize the Mission, and he could be a useful sounding board.

Bruce stared up at the ceiling, hands behind his head. His distress over his lack of focus during patrol this week nagged at him. He had to be careful about that. He couldn’t afford distractions.

& & & & & &

Bruce suggested some places to see, and the group was overwhelmingly in favor of a trip to Point Blessed.

It was an hour’s walk from the Manor, and everyone donned sturdy hiking boots and warm clothes as the chill October air promised a less-than-warm hike. As they gathered in the foyer, Bruce went into the kitchen. “Alfred, we should be back for lunch.” He looked at his butler. “Do you require assistance?”

Alfred looked affronted. _“Really,_ sir.”

Bruce smiled. “Sorry.” He looked at a hopeful Clark. “Looks like Alfred has everything under control. Would you like to come along?”

Clark’s look of pure joy warmed Bruce’s heart. He didn’t need to see his slave’s eyes to know they were sparkling.

“Get changed. And wear that new coat I bought you. Dress warmly.”

“Yes, Master!”

Clark was gone in an instant, leaving an amused Bruce and Alfred.

“He is such a delight, sir.”

“That he is, Alfred, that he is.”

“Will you be carrying water bottles on your hike?”

“Yes.” As Bruce turned away, Alfred said, “Sir?” Bruce turned back. “It is a kindness you show Clark.”

“Well, Alfred, I…”

“He treasures being a part of such things, of being with you.” Wise eyes looked at his Master.

Affection shone in Bruce’s eyes. “Thank you, Alfred.”

As Bruce left, the kitchen radio was turned on by Alfred, the announcer’s voice carrying to the foyer as Bruce’s guests chatted while they waited.

_“Gotham is enjoying record crowds during Halloween Week. Commissioner James Gordon and his men of the Gotham Police Department are doing an excellent job, and the Batman is on the job. There have also been sightings of Star City’s Green Arrow._

_“In national news, the Congress will be debating the proposed law in removing the discretion of Masters to brand their slaves by next month.”_

Bruce appeared and said, “We’ll be ready to go as soon as Clark comes down.” They returned to their conversation, Lex breaking away from the group.

“Does Clark go everywhere with you?”

“No, but he is my companion.”

“Beyond the bedroom?”

“Yes.”

Lex’s light-blue eyes sparkled. “Maybe I should invest in a pleasure slave.”

“Maybe you should. Hasn’t it been awhile since you had one?”

“It has. You know me: easily bored.”

Bruce laughed. “True. They say the easily-bored is a correlation with high intelligence.”

“Guilty.”

Bruce shook his head. “Incorrigible.”

“I certainly hope so.”

Bruce smirked. He glanced up and saw Clark coming down the staircase. Dressed in jeans, a red flannel shirt, and hiking boots, he wouldn’t win any GQ awards but looked gorgeous, anyway. He carried a woolen cape and gloves and went to the foyer closet, taking out the fleece-lined jacket that Bruce had directed him to wear.

Bruce watched as Clark shrugged into the coat and began buttoning it. He stepped forward and fastened the last button, Clark giving him a grateful smile.

The air was crisp as they stepped outside. Despite the cold, Bruce did not sense the approach of snow. He didn’t care what the weathercasters said. Anyone who lived in snow country could ‘feel’ the oncoming of the white stuff.

It was an exceedingly pleasant walk. Bruce walked with Ollie and Lex while Clark walked behind them with Hal and Steve. The usual protocol would have him trail even the pilots, but Bruce considered it impractical. Since no one in the party objected, Clark was able to be one of the group, which pleased Bruce.

The countryside was ablaze with color. Some of the trees were already bare but the remainder were still giving a magnificent show: burnt orange, fiery red, and lemon-yellow stood out against an eye-achingly blue sky. The display of Nature’s bounty pleased men who had to spend much of their time in cities or in space.

Bruce felt relaxed, his only responsibilities that of host. He spoke of the evening’s plans and felt pride in Gotham’s wild reputation.

He enjoyed observing Clark, albeit indirectly as Clark was behind him. He wondered if Clark’s quiet demeanor was natural or a result of his manacled status.

_Probably both._

Bruce had seen flashes of resolute courage, and considering all he had suffered before Bruce had bought him, Clark was brave indeed.

Bruce liked the shyness, however. It was utterly charming and engaged his protective instincts.

& & & & & &

Soon enough they reached Point Blessed, climbing the high incline to a cliff overlooking the Gotham River. A stone marker commemorated the Revolutionary War battle that had taken place here.

“Hey!” Steve said as he read the inscription. “The victorious General was ‘Mad’ Anthony Wayne?”

Bruce smiled. “My ancestor.”

Five interested faces turned to him. With a laugh, Bruce went into storytelling mode.

“The Madman, as he is affectionately known in the family, was the leader of the troops stationed here. The British had been driven out of Boston in March of 1775 and were spoiling for a fight after having to abandon the city. They wanted to take New York and Gotham, two strategic cities, and an army of British and Hessians started to march on Gotham.”

Bruce swept his hand around at the beautiful panorama. “Gotham was my family’s fiefdom. Not only did the Madman stand to lose the Manor, but he had a responsibility to the people of the county. He gladly prepared himself for battle.

“The Royal Navy sailed down the river and were met by cannon here on this cliff as the Rebels had done up in Boston. They were also spread in the lowlands, and there was a land battle. The Madman led his men to victory on land and sea.”

“Why was he nicknamed the Madman?” Steve asked.

“He made a bold move during the Battle of Fort Ticonderoga during the French-and-Indian War, so bold that people called him crazy, but it was all right because he won.” Bruce’s teeth gleamed, showing pride in his ancestor.

“Pretty interesting,” Hal said, studying the marker.

“What a beautiful view, “ Clark murmured. He stood by the retaining wall, watching a large sailboat float down the river.

Bruce silently agreed as he stood next to Clark, the blue of the river reflecting the azure sky framed by the banks of autumn color.

The peace of the site soothed Bruce. He enjoyed the view, the quiet, and occasional twitter of a robin or cry of a hawk. A soft breeze blew up from the water, ruffling his hair.

He glanced at Clark’s profile, proud of calling such beauty his own. He reached out and squeezed Clark’s hand.

Clark turned and dazzled Bruce with his smile. As he dropped Clark’s hand, he pondered that kissable mouth.

Ollie moved to the stone wall, admiring the view, too. He put a booted foot up on the wall as he gazed down at the river.

A tingle went through Bruce’s mind. That pose reminded him of someone, something…

“I can see how this would be a great vantage point in that battle,” said Ollie. 

“Yes.” Bruce frowned slightly.

“Those old frigates could do some serious knots, but they were sitting ducks down there.”

“Yes, the heights are a good strategic stronghold.”

A shaft of sunlight touched Ollie’s hair, kissing it to life.

_Blond hair…_

Surprise blossomed in Bruce. Could it be…?

He shook his head.

Ollie put his foot down as Steve and Hal joined them at the wall. Lex stepped up next to Bruce.

They all stood in silence, watching another boat sail up the river, its red-and-white striped sail bright in the autumn sunshine.

Perfect peace before the night’s revelries in Gotham.

Bruce sighed in contentment as he squeezed Clark’s hand again.


	16. Chocolate, Tarot, And Crystal Balls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During a night of revelry, Destiny’s Mists sparkle rainbow-bright.

_Mists swirling  
Light curling,  
Destiny’s dreams,  
Light beams._

_Rainbow ribbons,  
Souls entwining,  
The stuff of Legends  
Witch’s divining._

  


**Alyce Grimmoire  
"The Book Of Shadows"   
1963 C.E.**

The crowds were noisy in their excitement, costumed or beaded or both. Bruce and his party were not in costume but happily applied glittery face paint or grabbed beads from gaudily-costumed men on stilts or from the floats that paraded down Whiskey Street.

Street minstrels danced up and down the streets, lutes and guitars and tambourines playing as vendors enticed customers to their booths and tents set up in the open air. All manners of goods were available from on-planet and off: glittery Salem jewelry (including pentagrams), Rigellian fire crystals, Virillian swords, Native American dreamcatchers, Celtic crosses, Egyptian ankhs. Clothing of every hue and texture fluttered in displays outside the tents, and Bruce approved of the black silken cloaks at one tent.

As in Salem, the local Wiccan community was out in full force at Samhain, Witches’ Halloween. They were the vendors of many of the wares.

As the Wayne group strolled along the streets, the smells of fried dough, pizza, chicken, and dozens of other foods carried on the clear night air. They stopped by a booth selling sweets, the chocolate bubbling away in steel pots, the pungent aroma rich and delicious. 

Bruce watched in amusement as Clark inhaled the tantalizing scent. He had discovered his slave’s fondness for chocolate and indulged him as often as he could. 

“Would you like some, Clark?”

Clark’s smile lit up the world. “Yes, please.”

Bruce bought a large peanut butter-and-chocolate cup for Clark and asked his guests their preferences. Delighted, they named them and Bruce purchased each individual candies. He also bought a box of smaller hand-dipped chocolates as did Ollie and Hal, and added a box of Belgian chocolates for Alfred.

“Master, aren’t you going to have some?” Clark asked as Bruce handed him the boxes.

“I suppose I will. What do you suggest?”

Delighted to be asked his opinion, Clark carefully looked over the assortment. The middle-aged woman behind the counter looked on in amusement. 

“I can recommend what I have, but also the buttercream and the lemon-filled.”

“Dark chocolate, of course.”

“Of course.” Clark’s whole demeanor suggested sparkling eyes behind his glasses. As it was, the sapphire-blue glitter on his face winked and sparkled.

 _I wonder what he would look like with kohl or glitter around his eyes_ , Bruce thought. 

The notion nearly floored him. Maybe it would work with his costume tomorrow night…

“Master?”

“Hmm?”

“Which one would you like?”

_You._

Clark cocked his head.

_Dipped in dark chocolate. Hand-dipped!_

“Bruce?”

Bruce blinked and looked at Ollie’s hand on his arm. “Wha…What?”

“Hey, ol’ buddy, you okay?”

“Looks like you were in dreamland,” Lex added.

“Just lost my train of thought.” Why did he have a sudden craving for Oreos?*

“Do you want to have some of my chocolate?” Ollie asked. “Dinah wouldn’t mind a missing piece from the box.”

“Uh, no, thank you. The buttercream and the lemon-filled, please, ma’am.”

The vendor packaged the chocolates in small white paper cups and handed both to him. He thanked her and paid.

As they walked away from the booth, Bruce bit into into buttercream, the rich flavor melting on his tongue. The sweetness of the light and dark pleased him.

More walking, more revelry, the jangle of beads and the fluttering of feathers. The smell of sausage sizzling was sharp in the air, joined by the mouthwatering scents of fresh Atlantic seafood, roast pumpkin seeds and cranberry bread. Off-world exotica included Aldebaran shellmouths, Denebian roast boar and Martian sweetcakes. Bruce and his group sampled a variety of wares, including pumpkin bread warm from the oven.

Throughout their sojourn Clark stayed close to Bruce. Bruce had explained how unscrupulous thieves would steal slaves in large crowds such as this if Master and slave weren’t careful. 

“Don’t get separated from me,” Bruce had warned. “Or if I’m otherwise occupied, stay close to one of our guests.”

Clark had nodded, obedient as usual. Bruce considered himself lucky. Clark was usually eager to please him, only occasionally showing flashes of rebellion. When he ‘punished’ Clark, he preferred it to be a bedroom game, not a genuine punishment for disobeying his orders.

His protective instincts were in full force. He would sometimes grasp Clark’s arm, keeping him close, or let Clark be so close that he was like a second skin. 

His lips curved as he used what the tabloids would call his ‘Bat-radar’ to keep his senses alert. No way in hell would he let someone hurt Clark. The slave thieves were the worst, but ordinary people often took delight in humiliating the manacled among them.

_Seems to suit some types to go after those who can’t fight back._

Clark’s dark glasses worn at night were the only giveaway that he was a slave. His manacles and collar were hidden by his clothes, and hopefully his beauty was well-hidden, too.

Bruce watched as Clark absorbed everything. So often secluded on the estate, Clark always welcomed a chance to go out into the world. His loss of memory made so many things new to him. Bruce enjoyed watching his companion’s reactions as he soaked up the atmosphere.

They walked by a black-and-gold striped tent with a sign proclaiming: ‘Madame Zee—Tarot and Palm Readings, Crystal Ball Divinations’.

“Now this is what I need…a Tarot reading,” Ollie said, tapping one green-glittered cheek.

His friends teased him but he waved them off as he entered the sparkling tent.

“Shouldn’t take long,” Steve said.

“How do you know?” Lex asked in amusement.

“Hey, I’ve had readings done before.”

“Care to share?” Bruce was as amused as Lex.

“Sure. I’m going to meet a tall, dark-haired, beautiful woman with the strength and heart of a lioness.” Blue glitter sprinkled on his face and in his hair matched his sparkling eyes.

Laughter rippled around the group.

“Oh, yeah, that is definitely your future,” Lex grinned.

Hal shook his head fondly at his friend while Bruce smirked. Steve merely grinned.

Twenty minutes later Ollie emerged from the tent with a smile on his face.

“So, what are the predictions?” Lex asked.

“Hey, I can’t tell you my reading. That’s like giving away your birthday wish.” More grins, then Ollie tapped Bruce on the shoulder. “Why don’t you try it?”

Bruce smirked. “I don’t believe in soothsayers.”

“So what have you got to lose, then?”

Bruce looked around at the amused faces and thought, _What the hell?_ He grabbed Clark’s arm and ceremonially handed him over to Lex.

“Protect,” he said quietly, and Lex nodded as he took Clark’s arm. As soon as the ritual was completed, Bruce disappeared into the tent.

Beads jangled and the smell of incense and patchouli was strong. He allowed his eyes to adjust to the dark, a small candle flickering on a small table. The light illuminated rich hangings on the walls, woven with Celtic symbols. A tall, hand-carved staff was set in the corner, and a black-painted chair was set in front of the table.

The table itself was set with the candle, a crystal ball resting on a small pewter dragon base, a deck of Tarot cards, and a jeweled wand.

Less than thirty seconds after Bruce had entered the tent, a flap at the back was parted and a young woman stepped out.

She was dressed in traditional Gypsy garb: a full, peasant skirt; a low-cut, squash-colored bodice; dozens of gold and silver bracelets, necklaces, and rings; large gold hoop earrings; a scarf around her head, and long, blond hair tumbling over her shoulders. Tiny sprinkles of yellow glitter dusted her face around her piercing blue eyes.

He was a little surprised at the hair color. Dark tresses were the usual color.

_Oh, well. It’s just a costume._

“Madame Zee.”

“Please, sit.” She indicated the chair. “Lord Wayne.”

He wasn’t surprised that she knew him. He was well-known on Earth and throughout the Empire. As the richest man on Earth, he was accustomed to people knowing him without benefit of introduction.

The ‘Lord’ reference fit in with her background. Certain people felt in their bones the truth of his lineage.

“Anything in particular you are seeking?” she asked as she took a seat.

“No, nothing specific.”

Zee took her pack of cards and shuffled them, then started laying them out. Bruce watched, noting the pack was designed as a Medieval royal court. Silence continued except for the sound of cards being flipped.

The soothsayer frowned. She tapped a card. “A long journey is in progress, started long ago.”

Bruce said nothing. All vague, generic sayings.

“Blood, shadows, a life of purpose…” She laid out two more cards “…a brightness dispelling the darkness…” she frowned again “…a break in the journey…a storm…”

Bruce had seen many strange things as he had journeyed through Asia, studying to become the Batman. Perhaps this woman was really a psychic.

Or perhaps a charlatan?

Bruce doubted the latter, since she would have been screened by the Gotham Witches’ Council.

Still, she was being very vague. He didn’t put much stock in what she had to say. He relaxed as he listened.

Zee laid out another card. “Ah!” Her face brightened. “A blossoming. Happiness shall be yours, m’lord.”

“Happiness as in love?” asked an amused Bruce.

“Verily.”

“Far in the future?”

She studied the card. “Not too far in the future.”

Bruce knew then she was less than a stellar psychic. He had no potential partners on the horizon that he was aware of right now. Unless he fell in love at first sight, this prediction was going to go by the boards.

Her hand hovered over the cards, then a glow appeared in her crystal ball. The glow reflected in the dragon’s ruby eyes.

Zee pushed aside the cards, sliding the ball over between her and Bruce. She put her hand several inches above the crystal, watching the swirling mists within the sphere. Slowly she rotated her hand, bracelets jangling.

“I see…the darkness again…shadows…dark wings…”

Bruce tensed. He crossed his arms, wondering if she was really seeing his Secret or making a guess for dramatic effect. Gotham and dark wings went together, as in gargoyles. She continued to speak, punctuated by the clink of jewelry.

“…events…quiet…a great meeting, as told in the cards…sanctuary…peace…a blaze of light…a love of which Legends are made…a new light, bright and airy…child of your heart…Rainbow’s Mists…” The crystal’s mists indeed sparkled with various colors, beautiful and mesmerizing “…a great crusade…flying…wings beating…crimson, gold, and green…a great Destiny has been met, with a shattering of order…truth, justice, and…a whole new world is born…”

The rainbow light sparkled on Zee’s jewelry, her face illuminated as she concentrated.

“…Rainbow’s Freedom…” she murmured.

The patchouli and incense seemed even heavier in that moment, Bruce feeling a prickle of discomfort.

Zee’s hand slowed, the bracelets’ jangling as soft as tiny bells now. The rainbow mists gently dissipated, leaving clear crystal. The mystic blinked as if gathering her senses. She leaned back in her chair.

“Are you all right, Madame?”

She looked at Bruce, her eyes an indefinable color in the flickering candlelight. Suddenly she grabbed his hand. His first instinct was to pull away but he allowed her touch. One red-nailed finger trailed down the palm of his hand, her voice steady as she said, “Your line stretches far back, m’lord. It also portends great things. Your Destiny could change the Universe.”

Bruce smiled. “I don’t believe in Destiny, Madame Zee. I believe our choices make our Destiny.”

A small smile curved Zee’s lips. “As you wish, m’lord.” She gently released his hand. “Know this, however: you are destined to cleave unto the other half of your soul.” 

“Will I know it?” Bruce asked in amusement.

“If you open your heart.”

Bruce rose and paid the mystic, admiration for her showmanship in his eyes.

Worth every penny, he thought.

When he re-emerged from the tent, he was met by expectant faces.

“I am destined for great things,” he said haughtily, running his hand through his hair, purple glitter shining through the dark tresses.

Laughter burst out.

“What, President of the United States?” Lex asked.

“Emperor of the Empire?” teased Hal.

“Lord Emperor of the Universe?” Ollie snickered.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Bruce asked, keeping up the act. He walked over to Lex, who held out Clark’s arm, transferring protection back to Bruce. Bruce’s hand closed around his slave’s arm just above the bracelet. The metal sparkled its rainbow colors.

“Come, my Prize. I think I saw a frosted pumpkin cupcake with your name on it.”

Clark’s smile was a burst of light and Bruce felt happy.

& & & & & &

It was a quick patrol that night, just enough to show the flag. He allowed the predictions to roll around in his mind, more amused than anything else.

_All this talk of darkness, brightness, child of my heart, Destiny…_

There were Wtiches with true clairvoyance, but Madame Zee had spoken too much in generalities.

_The only Destiny I have is to protect Gotham._

A _whoosh!_ of wind fluttered his cape. “Hello, Arrow,” he said without turning around.

“Hello, Batman.” The cheerful voice irritated the Dark Knight. “How’s things?”

“Fine.” As Green Arrow walked into his line of vision, the wavy blond hair attracted his attention. It was thick; it curled like some medieval archer; he was putting his leg up on the wall… 

Batman blinked, then smiled.

& & & & & &

Ollie jogged through the woods, emerging onto the manicured lawn of Wayne Manor. He kept to the shadows, careful that no one was watching at the windows, and shimmied up a venerable old maple tree. He slipped into the window of his bedroom.

As his boots set on the polished floor, a voice came out of the darkness. “Hello, Ollie.”

Ollie nearly jumped but faced the man sitting in the chair in the dark corner, fingers steepled.

“Hello, Bruce.”

“How’d you get to Gotham?”

“By train,” Ollie said lightly as he removed his beard and mustache.

“I meant for your patrols. I’ve seen the newscasts about your visits to Gotham.”

“Really?” Ollie removed his gloves and armbands. He bent down to remove his boots. “I thought it was because…” he looked up “…you were patrolling with me.”

Shock, then irritation crossed his old friend’s face. “How?” he ground out.

Ollie let his smile remain easy. “I heard the Batmobile leave one night. I put it together: the Batman and all his gadgets needing money to back them up, the dedication to Gotham, height and weight the same, that chin…”

Bruce’s glare elicited a laugh from Ollie. “It’s okay, Bruce, all the clues wouldn’t mean diddly-squat unless it was an old friend who put them together.” He waved his hand downward. “I assume the Batcave is under the ancestral manse?”

“Damn you.”

Ollie laughed again. “Relax, your secret’s safe with me.” Green eyes suddenly grew hard as emeralds. “I assume the same for me.”

“Of course.” Bruce’s voice was laced with pride in the dark. “Honor Served.”

Ollie bowed. “Honor Served.”

Bruce’s midnight-blue eyes glittered as a small smile curved his lips. He rose from the chair.

“Good night…Ollie.”

“Good night…Bruce.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Reference to [Sasha Anu’s](http://sasha_anu.livejournal.com) crackfic: [Paying What’s Due (Oreoverse)](http://sasha-anu.livejournal.com/100367.html) ;)


	17. Dusk Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The magic of All Hallows’ Eve begins.

_Dusk falls,  
On All Hallows’ Eve,  
Magic whispers  
In wind and leaves._

_Destiny meets,  
Destiny rides,  
Stars explode,  
Time’s tides._

  


**Alyce Grimmoire  
"The Book Of Shadows"   
1963 C.E.**

Halloween dawned crisp and clear, the sky so blue it almost hurt the eyes.

Bruce’s guests had business to conduct over computers and cellphones, and there was a relaxed afternoon before the preparations of the night. Costumes were laid out as everyone anticipated the party.

“The Harvest Ball is one of the highlights of the Gotham social season,” said Bruce as he sipped a glass of wine in the library. Ollie and Lex had joined him, Hal and Steve finishing up some business elsewhere.

“So all the veddy uppercrust will be there.” Lex sipped his own wine.

The three smiled, comfortable in their shared background. 

“So, your costumes all ready?”

“Oh, yes, m’lord,” Ollie winked.

Lex affected a bored yawn. “It’s been years since I donned this particular persona again, but it’s time.”

“Alexander the Great!” Ollie said with a dawning light in his green eyes.

“Exactly, my dear Oliver.” Lex smiled. “Maybe I should ask to borrow your slave, Bruce.”

“Ah, but Alexander didn’t sleep with slaves. He slept with Hephaistion, his boyhood friend who became his Patroclus to his Achilles, and with Bagoas, a _former_ slave.”

“I wonder what that would be like, to love someone so much that you’d fall apart after they died, as Alexander did after Hephaistion passed away first,” Lex said softly.

“I don’t know,” said Bruce. He looked at Ollie, whose love for Dinah was strong.

Ollie smiled. “I’ll be the one to go first. Dinah’s too ornery…and strong.”

Lex and Bruce smiled, then Bruce said, “Speaking of going first, I appreciate you two consenting to take ownership of Alfred if something should happen to me.”

“My pleasure,” said Ollie.

“When the time comes, you’ll take ownership, Ollie, and I thank you, Lex, for consenting to be the next in line if something happens to Ollie and Dinah.” 

Which considering now that he knew they were Green Arrow and Black Canary, could very well mean an early exit from this life, just as he risked every night as Batman.

“I’m happy to do it, Bruce,” said Lex. “Alfred is a treasure.”

“Absolutely,” Ollie agreed.

Bruce sipped his wine. “I need to ask you another favor.” Ollie and Lex waited. “I want to will Clark to you.”

His friends exchanged a look. Ollie took a deep breath. “I think I can speak for Lex when I say we’re honored.”

Lex nodded. Bruce set his wineglass down. “I’d like to will Clark to Ollie first, Lex, since Alfred will be under his ownership as well. Alfred and Clark have become very close.”

Lex nodded. “I’d be happy to be next in line.” A small smile quirked his mouth. “And that will ensure that Clark is some distance away from my father.”

Bruce had taken that into account when asking Ollie first. Lionel Luthor was notorious for ‘sampling’ every manacled ware on Luthor property. If Lex designated an Exclusivity Bond with a slave, usually a pleasure slave, it was certain that Lionel would violate it.

“I’ll contact my attorney tomorrow. He has the paperwork drawn up and just needs to fill in the names.” He stood and took Ollie’s hand in both of his. “Thank you.” Ollie nodded. Bruce did the same with Lex, who murmured, “You’re welcome.”

“Well, then,” Bruce said, taking his seat again and raising his wineglass. “To old friends.”

“To old friends,” Ollie and Lex echoed.

& & & & & &

It was time to gather in the foyer for the trip to town. Alfred chatted with Brendan, who would chauffeur everyone. The butler also had a bowl of candy ready for neighborhood trick-or-treaters. Most of the children in the neighborhood who observed the ancient custom were accompanied by governesses or other employees instead of parents, but they seemed to have fun.

Alfred and Brendan looked around at the first arrival. “Oh, good show, sir,” Alfred said.

The man in silver smiled. “Thank you, Alfred.” Hal brushed his sleeve. His costume was that of an old-fashioned astronaut, the tight silver accentuating his body. A silver domino served as his mask.

“Ah, so you have the right stuff,” Lex said as he strode in golden breastplate and sandals, his skirt and cloak a shimmering scarlet. He carried a gold helmet with a red plume, a mask built in to conceal his eyes. 

“Alexander,” Hal bowed, the light of the chandelier bouncing off his costume, creating ribbons of rainbow light as he moved.

The next arrival brought laughter and applause. Blond hair peeked out from a shiny top hat, a silken black cloak flowing out behind him as Ollie walked into the foyer, white-gloved hands gesticulating as he pantomimed a magician’s trick. His tuxedo was crisply-pressed, green eyes sparkling from his half-mask.

“Bravo, sir,” said Alfred.

“Looks like we have quite a group.” Bruce strode in, sheathing his sword. Buttons gleamed down his well-tailored blue coat, his breeches spotless, his boots polished.

“Mad Anthony would be honored, sir,” Alfred said as he bowed.

Bruce grinned. “Thank you, Alfred.” He adjusted the jaunty cockaded hat and affixed his dark-blue sequined mask.

“Where’s Steve?” asked Ollie.

“Right here.”

A look of delight crossed Bruce’s face. “Excellent, Steve… _Rogers.”_

Steve grinned as he walked into the center of the foyer, wearing the classic red-white-and-blue costume of Captain America and carrying the stars-and-striped round shield. 

Hal laughed. “I should be Iron Man.”

“Or Hawkeye,” Ollie said. He smirked as he saw Bruce roll his eyes.

“I have the car ready, sir,” Brendan said. 

“Very good.” Bruce’s guests started to leave. “Oh, gentlemen, we have one more.” Bruce stretched out his arm.

Clark descended the staircase, wearing a simple Minuteman’s outfit of boots, breeches, homespun shirt and vest, and a civilian version of Bruce’s hat.

Alfred approved. He had half-expected a highly exotic costume, perhaps with precious little material, as Masters liked to show off their slaves’ bodies in scanty costumes.

Not that his young Master was above that. No doubt some year he would show Clark off, but this year had opted for a more modest look.

But not completely modest.

The light-brown breeches were a little tighter than an American colonist would have worn, and the top two buttons of his off-white shirt were undone, showing smooth, golden skin. His shining dark hair was brushed back under the hat, a hair extension creating a ponytail tied by a brown velvet ribbon. A half-mask obscured the top half of his face. He carried an old-fashioned musket, an ammunition pouch slung over one shoulder and a powder horn attached to another strap. Slaves weren’t allowed to carry weapons except in defense of their Masters, but this was obviously a costume and a non-working musket.

“Very authentic,” Ollie said, admiring the accentuation of calf and buttock as Clark turned slightly to take Bruce’s hand.

“Yes, well, the designation of ‘Minuteman’ glamorizes ‘farmboy’.” Bruce’s smile was mischievous.

Clark smiled shyly, pleased that his costume was garnering so many admiring looks. He knew the nature of those looks and no doubt felt a little puff of pride.

It was acceptable for pleasure slaves to accompany their Masters to such events as the Harvest Ball, and young Master Bruce seemed more than happy to take advantage of that social nicety. And if anyone wanted to object, it was highly unlikely that they would do so with the Prince of Gotham.

 _It pays to be the city’s scion,_ Alfred thought in amusement.

“Don’t wait up for us, Alfred,” Bruce said.

“Very well, sir.”

Alfred watched from the front door as they party headed for the limousine. The cold air swept up the long drive, whispering through the trees while the moonlight streamed down to illuminate the grounds. Tiny yellow–and-orange lights winked around the pillars of the veranda, lending the scene an unearthly glow. Childish voices could be heard as a small costumed party trudged up the driveway.

Truly a night for magic.


	18. Night Of Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Harvest Ball is a glittering success on a magical night.

_All Hallows’ Eve,  
No time to grieve.  
Magic abounds,  
In the night  
all around._

_Masks always hide,  
Prejudice and pride,  
But love is strong  
And doesn’t take long,  
To be the heart’s guide._

**Alyce Grimmoire  
  
"The Book Of Shadows"  
  
1963 C.E.**

The Harvest Ball was held at the Gotham Art Museum. Tiny yellow candles glowed in the windows and the walkway was lined with grinning Jack O’Lanterns. The swish of silk on sidewalks and the clink of bangled jewelry mingled with laughter as Gotham’s elite arrived.

The press was there to cover the event, cameras whirring and clicking as professional photographers took dozens of pictures. Questions were shouted out but the partygoers simply nodded and smiled, or ignored the ‘press peons’.

The Wayne party was noticed immediately, though no one knew who they were behind the masks, Bruce smiling as he kept Clark close to him. Sharp eyes spotted the collar and manacles and more lightbulbs and solar sticks flashed. Bruce bantered with the press, sliding his hand down to the small of Clark’s back, rubbing up and down.

“So, who’s in your party?” shouted a woman.

“Now, you know I can’t reveal that,” Bruce answered, disguising his voice just enough to keep his Wayne identity a secret. Since other Masters and Mistresses had brought their slaves, Bruce was confident that he could pull it off.

The whole point of the Harvest Ball was to remain anonymous as part of the fun, and Bruce enjoyed the opportunity to be out in public and not play the Rich Boy persona.

Being a Lord of the Manor could be so wearing at times.

He guided Clark and his guests inside.

The foyer of the Art Museum was decorated in orange-and-black, the harvest theme in evidence with pumpkins and gourds set around the polished marble floor, stairs, and railing. A table with refreshments was set up for the cocktail hour.

Like everyone else, Bruce liked to try and guess who was behind the masks, but unlike everyone else, he did it as an exercise in detection.

He also felt more relaxed here than out on the street. While Clark remained close, Bruce didn’t feel as paranoid about it. He would allow his slave to leave his side, figuring that it was safe.

General topics of conversation were on the docket since masked identities prevented more personal talk. Throughout the course of the night people would correctly guess some of the partygoers’ identities and lapse into more specific conversation, but that was not everyone. Some of the guests remained mysterious all night.

Bruce didn’t care if he was found out. He had another mask that was far more important and hiding who he was took a toll on him. If someone guessed who he was tonight, what of it?

He looked fondly at Clark, who now knew the truth. He could be an invaluable ally like Alfred. He watched as Clark bent down to pick up his napkin. He also had other invaluable assets.

“Beauty and brains,” Ollie whispered in his ear. 

Bruce smiled. “I can’t argue with that.” As Clark straightened up, Ollie said, “No worries about him, Bruce. If necessary, Dinah and I will take care of him.”

“I know.”

Ollie’s smile was infectious. His magician’s cape swirled as he moved to stand in front of Bruce. “Dinah completed the deal for a store here in Gotham.”

“Really? That’s great!”

“Yes, well, she’s originally from here as you know. Her dad was partners with Jim Gordon…” Ollie trailed off. “I’m sorry, Bruce.”

“Don’t be.” Bruce’s smile was reassuring. “I can think of Jim sometimes without thinking of that night.”

As Bruce walked away, Clark came up to Ollie. “Sir, what did he mean?”

Ollie looked at Clark. “Jim Gordon and Arthur Drake were the two beat cops who responded to the shooting that night in Crime Alley.” He didn’t need to explain what shooting. Ollie put his hand on a sad Clark’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Clark.”

“It…it pains him so.”

Ollie was saddened, too. “I know,” he said softly.

Clark heard something in his voice. “Mr. Queen?”

Ollie sighed. “I lost my parents young, too.”

Clark put his hand over Ollie’s. “I’m sorry.”

Affection swelled up in Ollie. “Thank you, Clark.”

Clark nodded and released Ollie’s hand. The blond asked, “So, how’s it feel being a farmer?”

Clark smiled. “It feels right.”

“Good!” he leaned forward conspiratorially. “Fresh off the farm should intrigue a city boy like Bruce.” Clark blushed. Ollie laughed and squeezed Clark’s arm, giving him a wink.

“Hey, hands off, Magician!”

Bruce’s voice was teasing, but Ollie thought he detected a firmness that indicated his friend’s possessiveness.

“Now, General, I wouldn’t spirit off your farmboy.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed for a second, then he smiled. “No, of course not.” He came forward and took Clark’s hand. Clark’s entire body language spoke of adoration.

Ollie’s eyes widened slightly. That wasn’t the look of a slave grateful to his Master. That was the look of a man in love with another man. 

_Oh, poor Clark. He’ll **never** be requited._

Ollie felt sadness. Clark would be far better off falling in love with another slave. He hadn’t seen any signs of Bruce being in love with Clark. He treated him with affection and just enough respect that a Master could have for a treasured slave, but…

Ollie frowned. There were indications, though, of feelings on Bruce’s part beyond affection. 

_I’m not sure what to hope for here. Bruce and Clark would be happy together, but they would have to hide who they were. Bruce would lose a lot of respect if people knew he was actually in love with his pleasure slave._

He sighed. Society sure made life difficult.

& & & & & &

Bruce escorted Clark to the refreshment table. “What would you like?”

“I should be serving you, Master.”

Bruce waved his hand. “Pshaw. You just tell me what you want.”

Bemused, Clark obeyed, and Bruce scooped up the pastries Clark had requested and presented the plate to his companion with a flourish. Clark took possession of it, wondering at his Master’s mood. He saw Ollie smiling from a few feet away. Clark’s lips curved into a smile as Bruce led him to a chair to sit.

“Having a good time?” Bruce asked, caressing his slave’s neck.

“Yes, Master.” Even though his eyes were hidden, he allowed himself to give Bruce a coquettish look and he wasn’t surprised to see Bruce register his amorous body language. Enjoying the public flirting, an art a good pleasure slave should know, Clark allowed his genuine love to fuel it. His gaze of adoration was safely hidden by his mask. 

Bruce did cut a dashing figure as Mad Anthony Wayne. Clark could easily see his Master as a leader of men in such a pressure-packed situation as war.

He ate a sweet chocolate pastry, his mind drifting to Bruce’s other costume. He would have to request seeing Bruce in black cape and cowl. He also wanted a tour of the Batcave.

Anticipating such pleasures, Clark relaxed and enjoyed his refreshments.

& & & & & &

The Egyptian display was opened to the partygoers as a segue into the ballroom. Some partiers merely strolled through on their way to the ballroom while others enjoyed the exhibit. There were busts, statuettes, Canopic jars, and a tall mummy’s case, the beautifully-carved and painted sarcophagus attracting attention.

Clark noticed a sleek black cat statue carved from pure ebony, its collar set with precious sapphires and rubies. The eyes winked in glittering topaz.

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

Steve appeared at his elbow, careful to keep his shield close to his body so as not to knock anything over. “I agree.” Steve’s blue eyes gazed at the statue, its imperious beauty an ancient jewel in the collection.

Clark glanced over at Steve. “So how does it feel to be the living embodiment of America?”

Steve grinned. “It feels good.” His smile faded. “People are quick to call others heroes.”

Clark tiled his head. “Are you talking about the Virillian War?”

Steve’s eyes held a faraway look. “Something like that.” He blinked and seemed to be back. “Isn’t all this great? It’s such an incredible feeling to be in the presence of objects from 4,000 years ago!”

“Are you a student of ancient civilizations?”

“I guess I am. I’ve always found societies like Egypt, Greece, and Rome to be interesting. They gave us so much.” Steve’s gloved hand caressed his shield. “The ancient warrior traditions came down to us, and we still honor them today.” 

“Each civilization had its own special attributes.”

“Yes.” They moved on to the next object, a water jug with shards missing. “Egypt conquered most of Africa while building a civilization dedicated to the afterlife; Greece honored the intellectual and philosophical while celebrating what’s known as ‘Greek love’, and Rome?” Steve’s smile was almost predatory. “Rome conquered the known world and except for Alexander of Macedonia and his troops, were the greatest soldiers the Ancient World ever knew.” 

Clark tilted his head. This was a side of Steve he had not seen before, yet it was not surprising. The quiet blond had racked up an impressive array of medals for heroism in wartime. Appreciation of the art of war would be part of him. 

The guests moved on to the enormous ballroom, massive chandeliers glittering from the frescoed ceilings, prisms of lights dancing on the shining floor. A larger buffet was set up at one end of the room with small round tables draped in black-and-orange arranged at the edges of the dance floor. Candles of the same colors flickered on the tables for those preferring not to dance.

“Captain, care to show off your grace and style?” asked Hal, smiling as he bowed.

“I would be delighted, sir.”

Steve smiled at Clark and allowed Hal to lead him out onto the dance floor, the prisms glittering off Hal’s silver suit. They made a charming couple as they danced, Clark watching with pleasure and a touch of wistfulness. He jumped slightly as a hand rested on his shoulder.

“Care to dance?” Bruce asked, a smile on his lips.

Clark nodded.

Bruce gallantly took Clark’s hand and led him out onto the dance floor. Clark felt clumsy at first, but then relaxed enough to let his natural grace take over.

Bruce was an excellent dancer and Clark’s heart filled with happiness. If all he was fated to have was this, it would serve to be enough. He would rather spend his life with this man in the throes of unrequited love than anywhere else. The more he observed Bruce and spent time with him, the more convinced he was that he felt genuine love and not merely gratitude.

Bruce was the perfect partner: graceful, charming and considerate. Clark loved the aura of power and lineage that surrounded Bruce Wayne, Prince of Gotham. If he had been free he would have been drawn to it.

Stars twinkled through the tall windows, a full moon shining down upon the well-manicured grounds. Clark allowed himself to feel romance, forgetting for a short space of time the manacles that enclosed his wrists and neck.

Clark’s heart was happy.

& & & & & &

Bruce felt light-hearted as they danced, his Master’s eye pleased at the gorgeous figure that Clark cut. He was a pleasure slave but so much more: a companion, a sounding board, and now an ally in his war on crime.

A rush of affection consumed him and he smiled, the magic of the night sparkling all around them. 

He thought of something. Digging into the pouch attached to his belt, he took out a glittering gold chain with a five-pointed star pendant. It was engraved with the version of the Wayne family crest used on slave jewelry: the stylized letter ‘W’ was in the center of a large five-pointed star, surrounded by five other stars set in a circle.

He slipped it over Clark’s head and pressed it gently against the hollow of his throat.

Clark’s eyes sparkled. “Master…?”

“Simply a gift to show you how treasured you are.”

Joy flooded Clark’s face, and he impulsively hugged his Master, who stroked his hair and smiled in amusement.

Pumpkin was the flavor of the evening: cupcakes, breads, soup, soft candies that melted in the mouth. There were more conventional foods: roast beef, chicken, salads, baby vegetables, fresh fruit. There was food plain, exotic, and sumptuous. Bruce allowed Clark to serve him this time and they sat and enjoyed the meal with Hal and Steve. Ollie and Lex were working the room, picking up tidbits of business information as some of Gotham’s elite talked amongst themselves, revealing their identities through slips of the tongue while others remained firmly masked.

Bruce went to the buffet to choose dessert. A gorgeous Egyptian woman appeared, green eyes so heavily kohl-rimmed that they served as her mask. A long, black wig jangled with glass beads, heavy gold jewelry studded with sapphires and emeralds winking at her throat and wrists. Her simple white dress left one shoulder bare, and a slit in her skirt flashed a shapely leg when she walked. Golden sandals clad her feet, the toenails painted red.

 _Queen Cleopatra_ , he thought with a smile.

Bruce smelled jasmine as she gracefully circled the table, and fingernails accentuating strong but slender fingers. Bruce watched her movements as he carefully scooped two slices of pumpkin pie onto china plates.

It had been a long time since he’d had a woman, and this one was stirring his body’s memories. She was beautiful and mysterious, her grace reminding him of a dancer.

Bruce took his time getting the pie, listening as the woman’s bracelets jangled as she scooped out some salad onto her plate. When he could linger no longer, he reluctantly began to leave.

“General,” she drawled, “Do you recommend the cranberry bread from this buffet?”

He turned back, turning on his Bruce charm. “I would.”

She used the silver server to scoop up a slice. “Are the bananas fresh? I do hate squishy, limp bananas.”

Bruce’s grin was blinding. “The bananas are fresh.” He cocked his head. “The strawberries are quite good.”

“And the melons?”

“Firm, from what I can see.”

Her laughter tinkled like windchimes, making him smile again. He watched as she speared a juicy piece of honeydew melon, lifting it to her ruby-red lips.

“Mmm,” she cooed as she sampled the cool fruit. “Yes, firm.”

Bruce was fleetingly tempted to make more of this flirtation, but then he glanced back over his shoulder at Clark, who was speaking with Steve. If this lady was willing, they could include Clark in their pleasure, as many assignations included pleasure slaves.

He was suddenly reluctant to include Clark. He wasn’t sure why. It was Clark’s job, after all, to spread his legs for anyone for whom Bruce commanded, but that reluctance to order it was strong.

Now even the thought of sex alone with the woman lost its appeal. He turned back and inclined his head slightly, taking his leave.

He returned to the table, setting down the plates. Clark smiled in thanks and Bruce knew he had made the right decision. 

& & & & & &

Bruce drifted to the exhibit hall, observing the beautiful statuary when he saw a flicker of motion. He thought he was alone but someone must have had the same idea.

Another shift of shadow, and his eyes widened. He quietly backed away and returned to the ballroom, locating Clark standing by a window.

“Go out to the car,” Bruce whispered, “and take out the bag that’s secured in the secret compartment I showed you.”

Clark understood, taking the spare keylock that Bruce gave him.

“Meet me by the Aphrodite statue out in back.”

Clark nodded, slipping out of the ballroom.

& & & & & &

The cold night air was brisk as Clark strolled out toward the parking lot. He wanted to hurry but he also didn’t want to attract attention.

He reached the limousine, glad to see Brendan not around. It would have been awkward to explain his little errand.

He aimed the keylock at the trunk and it opened. A quick survey and he found the compartment, unlocking it with the code that Bruce had taught him. He grabbed the bag and shut the trunk.

He pretended confidence, hoping he wouldn’t be accosted. Luckily there was no one out on the grounds, any reporters outside located in front of the museum.

He slipped through the shadows, excited to be helping Bruce. 

Out in the back of the museum it was also deserted. Suddenly Clark noticed a security guard strolling at the edge of the English gardens. Quickly he disappeared into the shadows, slipping silently through the hedges to the statue.

Bruce melted out of the shadows, Clark putting a finger to his own lips and gesturing toward the guard. Bruce nodded and took the bag.

Clark stayed out of sight while Bruce changed in the darkness. He could hear the rustle of silk and cloth, and he took a deep breath as the Batman emerged, his first close-up sight of the creature of the night.

Batman silently handed Clark the bag and then was gone.

Heart pounding, Clark tried to look casual as he headed back to the parking lot. 

“Hey!”

Clark stopped. He pushed the bag behind a bush and waited as he heard the footsteps of the speaker come close. Strong fingers grasped his chin and lifted his head.

“So, Minuteman, what are you doing here?”

“Just…Just getting some air.”

Hard brown eyes glittered in the man’s broad face. His thumb stroked Clark’s chin, a shrewd look entering those eyes. “You’re one of those rich boys’ catamites, aren’t you?” 

Clark blushed at the old term. “I belong to Master Bruce Wayne, yes.”

The guard cocked his head. “The fuckin’ Prince?” A leer spread across his face. “And I bet he does do exactly that with you, doesn’t he?”

Clark willed his screaming muscles to stay still as the guard suddenly began massaging him between his legs. Every instinct was telling him to resist but of course that would bring down severe punishment on him.

The hand holding his chin clamped across his mouth and Clark felt real fear now. The only resistance he was allowed was to yell for help.

“Man, you’re a pretty piece of ass.” Clark could smell the man’s heavy cologne as he nuzzled his neck. Clark stood perfectly still, hopeful that the guard would extract his fun and then let him go.

A part of him was angry at himself for getting himself into this situation. Bruce _depended_ on him to do the task assigned. If he couldn’t do even this small thing without getting molested, what good was he?

Clark gasped as his nipple was savagely twisted, his tormentor chuckling as he started to pull Clark close to him…

“What the hell are you doing, Barkley?”

“Go away, Marquand. This is none of your business.”

“Like hell it isn’t.” The other security guard grabbed Barkley’s arm and pulled, Barkley pushing Clark away so violently that he fell hard to the ground.

“Leave me alone!” Barkley snarled.

“I won’t! If Bruce Wayne finds you manhandling his bedslave, he’ll blow his top! Didn’t you learn when you got into the pants of the Worthington slave last week?”

Barkley yanked free and sneered, “She was made to open her legs on command just like _this_ catamite.” 

“Maybe so, but not at _your_ command.”

Barkley glared at Marquand, then stomped away, muttering under his breath.

“Sorry ‘bout that.” The guard took Clark’s arm, noting how he stiffened at his touch. “Let me help you up.”

Clark looked into brown eyes again, but this pair was gentle. He allowed Marquand to help him to his feet.

“Looks like if it wasn’t for these…” Marquand touched a manacle “…you could have handled him pretty well on your own.”

Clark ducked his head shyly. “Thank you.”

Marquand smiled. “Do you need an escort?”

“No, thank you.”

“You should be all right, but yell if you see Barkley approaching. I’m sorry about this.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Clark smiled a little. “Some people have good hearts.”

Marquand blushed. “Thank you.”

Clark walked back to the museum. He went inside, then doubled back to retrieve the bag with Bruce’s costume and brought it to the limousine, stashing it away until Bruce needed it later.

He had spoken the truth about good hearts. Some freemen _did_ have good hearts and didn’t treat slaves worse than their dogs or cats. While there were far too many of Barkley’s kind in this world, he was thankful that people like Marquand existed, too.

Freemen like Ollie, Lex, Steve and Hal.

Freemen like Bruce.

He touched the pendant that was warm against his skin. Bruce would never hurt him, at least not maliciously. Bruce might be forced to allow things due to social constraints or the Code or other reasons, but if Bruce hurt him, there was always a reason.

Clark would always keep that in mind.

& & & & & &

The Bat waited in the shadows, the faint strains of the chamber music drifting down the hall. Otherwise all was silent.

There. A creak of leather, so faint that he barely heard it. The would-be intruder was good, very good.

He waited. He was good at waiting.

Another sound, a movement of shadows.

Right by the cat statue.

He moved, gliding soundlessly across the parquet floor. He shot out a gloved hand, grabbing the smaller one that reached for the statue. 

The gloved hand had claws.

“Hello, Catwoman.” 

Green eyes glittered through the mask’s eyeholes, rosy lips curving into a smile. She was clad entirely in a black catsuit, accentuating every luscious curve of her body. Bruce admired the view while he held tightly to her wrist.

She said, “I suppose it’s logical for you to be at a costume party.”

“What can I say? I have a thing for masks.”

She laughed quietly, one clawed finger reaching for his face. He jerked back. “Darling, I wouldn’t mar that pretty face.” She gently laid a claw on Batman’s cheek, slinking closer.

He felt the sexual energy pour off her, his body beginning to respond. He smelled jasmine and his eyes widened.

_Cleopatra!_

“Now, I didn’t take Bast. I was just…looking.” She purred and slipped away into the shadows, Batman watching her in bemusement.

Catwoman was certainly intriguing, a woman who could engage his senses, but not his heart.

Clark was the one he loved, not Catwoman…

A great rush of joy surged up within him.

_Yes! I love Clark!_

In the next second, horror.

For a love that could never be.


	19. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce struggles with his revelation from the night of the Halloween Harvest Ball.

_Love denied._

_Not fair!  
He cried._

_Love accepted._

_No more tears,  
No more fears._

_Just joy._

  


**Addie Cutler  
"Drive-Through Thoughts   
And Other Poems"   
2030 C.E.**

Bruce watched Clark sleep as dawn’s rays began to peek through the crack in the curtains. His knees were drawn up, arms locked around them as he tried to rein in his thoughts.

He couldn’t love Clark.

The very thought of love scared him. No one except Alfred had gotten close to him since….since his parents had died. He’d slept with various women and men, but he’d carefully kept them at arms-length.

He couldn’t love Clark.

The Mission had to engage his full attention. He couldn’t afford distractions. His family had always taken care of Gotham. He owed it to his parents, in more ways than one. 

He couldn’t love Clark.

Masters weren’t supposed to fall in love with their slaves, pleasure slaves or not. Public knowledge of such a state of affairs would bring ridicule down on his head, tarnishing the Wayne name.

He could hurt Clark in ways his slave couldn’t even imagine.

Bruce rubbed his forehead. Luckily they had come home so late that Clark hadn’t questioned Bruce not wanting sex. Bruce wasn’t certain how he could approach sex now.

_This is ridiculous!_

Love? Absurd! He had strong feelings of affection for Clark. Last night’s Halloween ‘magic’ had simply heightened his reactions. The night had been filled with romance at the Ball, and his feelings had jumbled when he’d caught Catwoman.

Relieved, he decided that he had misread the sudden surge of feelings. He lightly touched Clark’s hair.

It was okay to feel affection for Clark.

He would protect him and make him happy, just as a good Master should.

& & & & & &

Bruce saw his guests off, Ollie staying to catch a later train. His green eyes sparkled as the limousine disappeared down the driveway.

“So, how ‘bout that tour?”

Bruce felt a surge of pride. Except for Alfred, no one had ever been down in the Batcave.

“Come along, then. You, too, Clark.”

Blue eyes sparkled, and Clark eagerly followed Bruce and Ollie to the library. The clock was opened, and down the stone steps they went, cool air sweeping up from below.

Ollie’s eyes grew wide as he stepped out into the Batcave. Unlike Clark, it was his first trip here.

But Clark was still dazzled. He had been forced to do a quick survey only on his first visit here, and then the Batman had returned.

Like a couple of teenaged boys, Clark and Ollie were drawn to the Batmobile. Bruce smiled as he understood the attraction.

The sleek, gleaming Batmobile was a thing of beauty, indeed. After a moment of hushed awe, Ollie began peppering Bruce with questions about the car. 

Bruce happily answered his questions. When Clark looked at Bruce, his hand hovering over the car, Bruce nodded his permission. Clark happily ran his hand over the sleek surface.

The tour moved from the car to the plane that rested in its hangar.

“Now that is impressive,” Ollie said. “So that pilot’s license turned out to be handy, eh?”

“Very.” Bruce looked at Ollie. “I take it you’re up on your lessons.”

“Absolutely.”

Clark ventured, “What’s it feel like, to pilot a plane?”

“Wonderful,” Ollie said. “It’s a great feeling, up there in the sky, free as a bird.”

“Not as a bat?” Clark asked with a smile.

Ollie laughed. “No.” He winked at Bruce. “So, ol’ buddy, care for some company on patrol tonight?”

“I suppose,” Bruce said grudgingly.

Ollie laughed again and followed Bruce to the computers, Clark hurrying to catch up.

Despite his outward reluctance, Bruce was pleased that Ollie was accompanying him tonight. He needed to stop thinking about silly romantic thoughts.

Watching Clark, he was more convinced that he had mistaken protectiveness for love. He just couldn’t get himself into trouble with ridiculous thoughts of love.

He delighted in Clark’s almost child-like joy in the trappings of the Batcave. His companion was eager to see everything, and soaked up all the knowledge he could.

& & & & & &

As darkness fell, Bruce and Ollie suited up in the Batcave, Clark and Alfred ready to see them off. Ollie grinned at them as he got into the passenger seat of the Batmobile. Bruce strode up to Clark and cupped his chin.

“Get some rest.” Teeth gleamed. “You’ll need it.”

Clark blushed, and Bruce smiled. He turned and got behind the wheel of the Batmobile, the engine roaring to life as the Batman drove out of the Cave.

Alfred put his hand on Clark’s shoulder and squeezed. “Are you up for some chocolate chip cookies warm from the oven?”

Clark’s eyes sparkled. “Yes.”

& & & & & &

Bruce felt that it was strange to have someone in the Batmobile with him. Ollie seemed relaxed, though, and the Batman began to settle over him.

The Batmobile was parked in a secluded area right outside the city, the heroes slipping into the darkness.

The patrol was quiet, neither man speaking, but then Ollie grinned as they surveyed the city from a rooftop.

“So, having someone like Clark to go home to is pretty cool, huh?”

“Very cool.”

& & & & & &

Ollie wondered if Bruce were speaking as Master or lover. He still wasn’t sure of Bruce’s feelings toward his beautiful slave.

_I certainly hope he’s just enjoying the Pretty’s charms. Affection is good, but true love…oh, my friend. I hope it’s not that._

_For both your sakes._

“So, you every think of taking on a partner?”

Bruce flexed his glove. “No, I don’t need a partner.”

_I don’t know about that, Bruce._

Batman pointed to the alley and Green Arrow nodded. They swooped down, scattering the foolish thugs who thought they’d found an easy mark in the well-dressed businessman.

& & & & & &

“Thank you for including me, Bruce.” Ollie removed his quiver and set it down, scrutinizing how many arrows he would have to replace.

Bruce was removing the cowl and he said, “You’re welcome.” He pointed to a door. “Shower facilities are in there.”

“You think of everything, don’t you?” 

Bruce merely smiled.

& & & & & &

“Mmm, Master, touch me right… _there.”_

Bruce was relieved that sex with Clark was as great as ever. He had been afraid that his muddled feelings would mess thing up. He slid his hand between Clark’s legs, gratified at the moan that came out of his slave. Clark’s head was thrown back, eyes closed, his hands doing wonderful things to Bruce.

He’d be fine, Bruce thought. Everything was back to normal.


	20. Crazy Bats And Clowns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce can’t afford distractions while he hunts the Joker.

_"A man can’t afford distractions if he wishes to pursue perfection."_

  


**Bryce Claridge  
"A CEO’s Secret To Success"   
1986 C.E. **

For the next few days, Bruce worked on a major acquisition for Wayne Enterprises. He kept his patrols short, but reports of Joker sightings got him to plan a longer patrol. 

Bruce decided he needed more practice flying before that patrol, and he and Clark performed their aerial routine on the special rigging. Their timing was prefect. It was a perfect kick-off for patrol.

& & & & & &

That night Batman rousted all the snitches and petty criminals he could lay his gauntlets on. He was driven to find the Joker, who had eluded him only a matter of days ago.

As the night wore on, Batman grew more frustrated. A psychotic on the loose was not good.

Tired, he settled beneath a gargoyle, his cape tucked in around him. Thoughts of Clark entered his mind and he smiled, thinking of smooth, golden flesh open to his every desire, every whim, the sapphire eyes sparkling with pleasure as perfect lips curved…

A scream startled him and he nearly fell off the gargoyle.

Batman flew down to the street, a woman sobbing as she bent over her fallen husband on the sidewalk. His face was stretched in the Joker rictus.

Swearing silently, he helped the woman get her husband to the hospital.

Rage filled him. His distraction had allowed the Joker to escape and to victimize the innocent yet again.

& & & & & &

Bruce became more and more driven, working on the acquisition by day and hunting the Joker by night.

Sex with Clark was no longer a release but perfunctory, alternating with angry. 

Another victim of the Joker was found the third night after his escape.

& & & & & &

Clark watched as Bruce rolled away. His face reflected his hurt. Bruce’s usual affection was missing. He seemed unaware of Clark’s needs at all.

Clark was aware that Bruce was not required to care about his pleasure. In fact, all a Master required of a pleasure slave was his own pleasure.

Clark stared up at the ceiling as he listened to Bruce’s even breathing. For the past several nights, Bruce had been almost disinterested in sex.

Of course, all of that could be attributed to Bruce being tired due to driving himself relentlessly to catch the Joker.

But it had started before the Joker sightings. Clark had sensed a pulling-back, a distance in Bruce that he hadn’t sensed before. Worriedly he wondered if Bruce was getting tired of him.

It certainly wasn’t unknown. Masters tiring of pleasure slaves was common enough. Sometimes they changed those slaves’ duties and made them useful elsewhere. Other times they simply sold them.

Clark’s hands clenched. The thought of the auction block terrified him, but never seeing Bruce again terrified him even more.

He was determined to prevent that possibility from coming true.

& & & & & &

“Where is he?”

The growl sliced through the snitch, his limbs trembling. The Bat hovered over him, grimness pouring off him like midnight from darkness.

Kenny Small knew that he was in trouble. If the Batman didn’t toss him off a rooftop, the Joker would cut his heart out. He cursed ever getting involved with the Clown Prince. The man was Looney Tunes, and he didn’t think the Batman was much different.

“I…”

 _“Tell me,_ Small.”

Kenny swallowed. He’d leave Gotham tonight. Metropolis was bright, but it had its seamy side. At least there were no crazy clowns or Bats there.

“He’s at the old Hempstead Wire Company warehouse. He’s putting together a gang for some big score, which I _don’t_ know.”

Kenny trembled. Would the Batman grind him into dust? He could break a few bones, indeed.

“Get out of here,” the Dark Knight growled, and Kenny was glad to oblige.

& & & & & &

The Hempstead Wire Company was one of those warehouses from Gotham’s industrial past. It was large, old, but sturdy, and a perfect place for nefarious doings.

Batman glided over the rooftops, alighting on another old building close by. He searched for signs of activity.

None.

Carefully he vaulted over to the roof, frowning as he stumbled slightly. Damn his lack of sleep. He considered calling Jim Gordon, but decided to wait until he knew for certain that the Joker was here.

He considered himself lucky that the Joker was leaving victims alive with their hideous grins instead of the rictus of death, but who knew how long that would last? What if he decided to ratchet it up to murder?

Batman clenched his right hand. His unforgivable distraction had led to this. 

**You love him.**

_I don’t._

**Of course you do.**

_I can’t afford to._

**Then don’t.**

Bruce shook his head. The Bat-voice was highly annoying. 

He slipped inside, centuries of mustiness tickling his nose. The building was solidly-built, as most nineteenth-century buildings tended to be, and he had to be careful not to trip over any debris.

He saw evidence of homeless habitation in the past. He hoped that none of them had camped out here when the Joker had scouted the place.

He stealthily reconnoitered the building, finally hitting paydirt. The Joker’s distinctive circus-style décor took up one large room, moonlight filtering in through an old broken window.

A quick search of the place didn’t turn up any prospective plans. A call to the Commissioner ensured back-up. He didn’t feel at the top of his game.

_Love will do that to a man._

Bruce nearly rolled his eyes. That Bat-voice was more than annoying now.

A noise. He turned but saw nothing. He swooped up to the rafters.

The Joker and six henchmen entered, the maniacal laugh bouncing off the walls.

“So, Boss, what’s the story?”

“Story?” Giggles. “Once upon a time…”

“C’mon, Joker, what’s your latest crime plan?” asked another thug.

“Maybe I don’t have one. Maybe I just want to keep purse-snatching and wallet-grabbing.”

“Really? You’re too brilliant for that, Joker,” said the first man.

“True.” The Clown Prince preened as he strutted around. “I have ol’ Batsy’s number, too.”

No one responded to that, and Batman congratulated them silently as to their wisdom. Reminding the Joker that the Batman usually deposited him back in Arkham wouldn’t be a wise idea.

“Boss!” A seventh man burst in. “Cops all over the place!”

“Oh?” The Joker’s eyes narrowed. “I had no idea that purse-snatching was such a big offense.” He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. “Let’s go. I know this place inside and out.”

Batman swooped down, knocking three of the men off their feet right away. The seventh man took off as the remaining three hurled into pitched battle with the Caped Crusader, the Joker cackling with glee.

Batman was methodical, but one of the thugs got in a lucky punch. Batman staggered, narrowly evading a second man’s fist. Shaking off his fatigue, he gathered his senses and exploded.

By the time he swept away the thugs, the Joker was gone.

The police burst in, only to find six unconscious thugs and no one else.

& & & & & &

Rage was becoming an old friend. Bruce stalked up the grand staircase, silent in tread but roiling with rage. His nerves jangled as his mind feverishly tried to puzzle where the Joker might be.

He entered the bedroom and paused by the bed. Clark was asleep, warm under the blanket and quilt as the nights were getting colder. Underneath was all that beautiful, naked flesh.

_He used to be my haven._

Now there were so many damned emotions all mixed up inside. And right now, he needed release or he was going to explode. He reached out a hand and gently shook Clark’s shoulder.

“Wha…? Oh, Master.” Clark blinked sleepily, hair endearingly mussed as he sat up, the covers falling to his waist and revealing the magnificent chest.

“Shut up,” Bruce growled, locking Clark into a fierce kiss. He plundered the sweet mouth, grabbed his hair, and pulled them apart. “Suck me now.” His body trembled with so many emotions he could barely see.

& & & & & &

Clark hesitated for a millisecond. Such orders were not unusual in the heat of passion, but there was something different about this, as there had been since Halloween.

He did as ordered, using techniques he had learned would give Bruce pleasure. A sharp tug on his hair indicated that Bruce wasn’t interested in niceties.

_Just rutting._

His heart sank. He couldn’t have love, but at least had enjoyed the illusion of being a talented pleasure slave, one worth the outrageous price Bruce had paid for him.

He worked quickly to bring Bruce to climax, nearly choking as his Master thrust hard, the bitter seed spilling down his throat. He tried not to cough as Bruce withdrew. He would have to stick to basics tonight…

Bruce settled into the bed. He closed his eyes. “Go to sleep, Clark.”

Hurt reflected in sapphire eyes. The taste in his mouth was of a different bitterness as he watched Bruce as he rolled over onto his side, turning his back to him.


	21. Oakwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce visits an old friend on a cold, blustery November day.

_"A Master who falls in love with his slave exhibits tendencies toward weakness and narcissism. Why a freeman would lower himself to the level of social inferiors is worrisome and contemptible. Any man who has such a flaw in his character cannot be trusted."_

**Professor Reed Martin  
  
  
"The Master/Slave Dynamic"  
  
  
2246 C.E.**

Bruce paused before he brought the doorknocker down. He looked eminently presentable in his dark-blue turtleneck sweater, jacket, scarf, and tan slacks. His hair was neatly combed, his face freshly-shaven, and his retro loafers were unscuffed.

He still looked like hell.

He rubbed his eyes, not even make-up able to completely hide the bags underneath them, or the generally haggard look that was so charming.

Bruce grimaced. Well, there was no help for it, just like there was none for this visit. He brought the eagle-shaped knocker down several times.

He had considered forgoing the visit and just sending the check, but he refused in the end, just as he had refused to shun Andrew Carver all these years.

Footsteps approached, a pause, then the door was opened. 

“Bruce! So nice to see you!”

“Nice to see you, too, Andrew.”

Bruce entered the foyer, Andrew closing the door against the sharp November wind.

“Come on. I’ve got a fire going in the library.”

Bruce followed his host down the hall, freshly-dusted picture frames stark against faded wallpaper. He could smell apple muffins baking.

The fire was welcome indeed. Bruce settled on the couch while Andrew took the overstuffed chair. Both pieces of furniture had seen better days, but they fit with the whole aura of faded gentility. He had noticed the broken stone wall ringing the property and the cracked walkway leading up to the mansion.

“Earl Grey?”

“Yes, please.”

Andrew rang a tiny silver bell, and five minutes later a strikingly beautiful man came in bearing a silver tray with two china cups with saucers and a silver teapot. He wore a cream-colored, long-sleeved cotton shirt and brown pants, autumn sunlight glinting off his collar and manacles.

Bruce always enjoyed seeing Andrew’s slave up close. Perfectly-proportioned, he was pushing middle age now but still resembled an Adonis. Golden hair cascaded in waves down to his shirt collar, flawless skin glowing golden as hazel eyes sparkled at Andrew.

_Hmm, not so flawless. He looks slightly bruised on his cheek. Hope Andrew isn’t getting too frisky in bed!_

Amusement twinkled in his eyes. ”Hello, Jeremy.”

“Hello, Mr. Wayne.” Jeremy met his eyes since Bruce had spoken directly to him. “Would you care for some muffins, m’lord? They’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

“I would, thank you.”

Jeremy inclined his head, quietly leaving the room.

Bruce lifted his teacup decorated with the Carver crest. “A jewel, Andrew.”

Pride shone in Andrew’s face. “He has been since the day Dad presented him to me on my 18th birthday.”

_Little wonder you fell in love with him._

Bruce sipped the excellent tea. “So, how goes the Foundation?”

Andrew’s pale blue eyes lit up. “Wonderfully! I’ll be e-mailing the report to you next week, but I can say that we helped more children than ever this year.”

“Excellent.” The teacup clinked in the saucer. He took out his checkbook, wrote, and ripped the check out. He handed it to Andrew. Despite electronic checking being the norm, banks still processed paper checks, especially with this many zeros.

“Thank you as always, Bruce.”

“My pleasure.” 

Gotham society shunned Andrew socially, but the Carver-founded Starlight Foundation was too prestigious to ignore. They sent their checks but never in person.

Andrew received a small salary as a member of the Board, but his trust fund had dwindled as he had been forced to sell off a good deal of stock after his romance became public. His family’s company had only survived when he had sold off his shares in it, otherwise it would have gone bankrupt as businessmen would have refused to deal with it. The sale had netted him some good money, but he had to husband it carefully; therefore, the air of shabby gentility around the estate.

_He lost nearly everything,_ Bruce thought morosely.

Jeremy returned with a basket of warm muffins and two plates that he carried on the silver tray. He handed Bruce a cranberry-colored linen napkin.

“Thank you,” Bruce said, placing the napkin on his knee. He took a muffin from the basket and broke it open. “Delicious, Jeremy.”

“Thank you, m’lord.”

Once Jeremy had left again Bruce looked at Andrew. The man was casually dressed in a light-blue shirt and dark-blue pants. At first glance, he looked fit and trim and in the best of health even with gray at the temples, but Bruce saw the lines of fatigue around Andrew’s eyes.

“How are you?” Bruce asked as he sipped his tea.

“Oh, about the same. I’ve got some plans to revitalize the garden.” He winked. “I’ve been put on the staff of _The Herald.”_

“The Abolitionist Society’s newsletter?”

He nodded. “It’ll help financially, that’s for sure.”

Bruce was glad to hear it. He hated to see such a beautiful estate deteriorate.

“I could get some help for Jamie. He and I take care of this place, but it can get overwhelming.” His eyes grew shadowed. “Maybe get a bodyguard.”

Bruce leaned forward. “What’s going on? Have you been threatened?”

Andrew shook his head. “It’s Jeremy.” He took a deep breath. “I can’t protect him as I should.”

“He’s received threats?”

“Beatings.” The teacup shook slightly as Andrew sipped his drink. “The police will do nothing, and the protection that Jamie should enjoy from me is nullified because I’m considered weak for falling in love with him.” A sardonic smile crossed his face. “After all, I committed the ultimate sin.”

Bruce felt queasy. He put his muffin down. “That doesn’t sound like Jim Gordon.”

“Sometimes the Commissioner doesn’t know what the rank-and-file does.” He smiled wryly. “Whoever screens his calls does a good job.”

Bruce frowned. “I can speak to Jim.”

“I’m not sure…I wouldn’t want some dressed-down cop to take it out on Jeremy.”

“Give me all the details: cops’names, their precinct, date and time of the assault…”

He thought of Officers Benson and Stabler who patrolled this neighborhood. If he could get Jim to assign them to watch Oakwood, perhaps Jeremy could be safe. It was chilling to think that in addition to losing his social status and most of his money, that Andrew had also lost his power to protect his slave.

“Andrew, you’ve been out for fifteen years. Why haven’t you been a victim of this harassment sooner?”

Andrew shrugged. “I don’t know. Usually we were left alone except for verbal attacks, mostly by my former social circle.”

“When was the first attack?”

“Late September.”

“How many attacks?”

“Three, one two weeks later, and the third four days before Halloween.”

“Could…was it tied in with the convention?”

“It could be, but I’ve been a voice for abolition for years.”

“Write up a report and send it to me. I’ll see that Jim gets it.”

“Thank you, Bruce.” Andrew relaxed. “I’m bringing Jeremy with me to Metropolis. There’s an NAS meeting I have to attend. I feel comfortable with the Society.” He smiled. “I love Jeremy and I don’t care who knows it, actually. It’s caused me no end of trouble but I wouldn’t change things if I could.” His smile grew affectionate as Jeremy came in to ask if they needed anything else. The slave’s eyes were full of love as he smiled at his Master, who was so much more than that.

& & & & & &

Bruce hunched his shoulders against the wind. He stepped down to the walkway, glancing back at the mansion.

He admired Andrew’s honesty and genuine love for Jeremy.

He didn’t want to be like him.

He didn’t want to let the whole world know when he was in love, which made him vulnerable.

He didn’t want to besmirch his family name or to be ousted from his company. 

He didn’t want to be so powerless that he couldn’t protect Clark.

Bruce walked down the driveway, scarf whipping in the cold November wind.


	22. Mirror, Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce runs into Edmund Caldwell (needless to say, not a pleasant encounter!)

_Gloom gathers,  
Love matters,  
Souls battered,  
Glass shattered._

  


**Emily Adams Cutler  
"Yellow Roses And Other Poems"   
1859 C.E.**

Alfred quietly entered the study with feather duster in hand. Clark was seated at the desk, working at the computer. He was so intent that he didn’t notice Alfred.

The butler glanced at the screen, then stopped. Wha…?

“Doing some research, Clark?”

Clark nearly jumped out of the chair. “Alfred!” His hand went to his chest, “You scared the life out of me!”

“Goodness, we can’t have that.” He looked at the screen. “Do you think Master Bruce is up to this particular position?”

Clark blushed furiously. He tried to minimize the window but Alfred’s hand on his stopped him.

“Why are you looking at such sites, Clark?”

The blush was still crimson. “I…I …” He swallowed. “I think Master Bruce is losing interest, so I…”

“…thought you would research some exotic techniques?” At Clark’s embarrassed nod, Alfred released his hand. He gently pushed it aside and clicked the mouse. “Here’s the foremost Pleasure Slave site. There are helpful links from here.” Clark looked at him in astonishment and Alfred patted him on the shoulder. He walked to the bookcase and started dusting.

Clark stared for several seconds, then a slow smile spread across his face and he shook his head in wonder.

& & & & & &

 **You need to focus.**

_I know._

**You’ve already let the Joker get the upper hand more than once. First because you wanted to get home to your pretty piece, and secondly because you let yourself get rundown and sloppy.**

Bruce sighed. His Bat-voice was very strong lately.

He walked briskly down the road from Oakwood, his hands in his jacket pockets as the wind grew stronger. He liked this time of year, though by now most of the leaves were down, leaving the trees stark against a slate-gray sky. The earth smelled damp from a late-night rain. Even the kitchen garden was bare after Alfred and Clark had dug up the last remnants. The sea was growing grayer and more tempestuous, the days growing shorter.

Deep in thought, he nearly ran into Edmund Caldwell on the sidewalk.

“Hello, Bruce. Taking your daily constitutional?”

Bruce’s head snapped up, only a lifetime of training keeping him from scowling. He put on his social playboy’s face and said, “Hello, Edmund. Brisk weather today.”

“Very, but invigorating.” Edmund held his silver-headed cane loosely. “How’s Oliver and Lex these days?”

“They’re fine. Tip-top health.”

“Yes, I spoke to Lionel yesterday. He’s very proud of Lex’s latest business acquisition, a Rigellian company.”

“Yes, I read about that on the Global Business site.”

Bruce kept up the civil façade despite his rage at Edmund. He did not want Edmund Caldwell zeroing in on him. Lionel Luthor was one of the most feared and ruthless businessmen on the planet, and even he respected Edmund and tried to stay on his good side.

Edmund looked grandfatherly with his silver hair and cane, and yet was the most bloodthirsty business shark Bruce knew.

_Not to mention a sadist._

“Oliver’s cousin Leila stopped by the other day. She left with one of my slaves, a little whelp.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. The little thing was always breaking the china.” Edmund shook his head in sorrow.

_No doubt she was so nervous and terrified of making mistakes in your household._

“Well, looks like Leila will have to do some training.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. The slave is with Oliver now.” Edmund touched his cane, pale eyes casually looking at Bruce.

Bruce willed himself to appear relaxed. His father’s voice echoed in his head, _"Don’t get fooled by Mr. Caldwell, son. He’s very pleasant and charming…but then pow! he’ll close on you like a bear trap."_

“I’m sure Dinah will take her in hand then.”

“Yes.” Edmund’s voice dripped disapproval.” She is the pseudo Lady of the House, after all.”

Bruce clamped on a genuine grin. Some religionists had no trouble with husbands and wives keeping pleasure slaves, but they had to be married first. He didn’t know if Dinah and Ollie would ever marry, but that was their business.

“Where’s your shadow?”

“Hmm?” His defensive shields immediately snapped up into place.

“That pretty piece of ass you bed.”

“Oh, he’s at home.”

“Waiting for his Master’s return?”

“He always does.”

Edmund’s eyes glinted. “Legs spread and waiting on silk sheets. Talented mouth, too, from the looks of him.”

“He’ll do.” Bruce disliked the crude description but carefully kept his tone light.

“How’s Andrew Carver?”

Startled, Bruce said, “Fine.”

“Really, Bruce, do you think it’s wise to be seen with him?”

“I wasn’t ‘seen’ with him; I merely dropped by his house.”

“Yes, Oakwood is in deplorable condition. A shame, really.”

_Yes, especially since you led the charge to ruin him financially._

“The Starlight Foundation is a worthy cause. His family modeled it after the Jimmy Fund in Boston, and they’ve made great strides in treating children’s cancer.”

“Certainly commendable, Bruce, but do you have to visit the fool? Why not just send him a check?”

Bruce waved his hand airily. “Oh, it’s sort of a tradition by now.”

The glint was undeniably hard by now. “Those kind of traditions we can do without.”

“How did you know I visited Andrew?”

“Harrison was driving over and saw you leaving Oakwood.”

_Damn, the whole family are like bloodhounds!_

“How is Harrison?”

“My son is doing well at the company. By the way,” he stilled the cane and smiled, “Would you be interested in selling your whore? Harrison’s pleasure slave was damaged beyond repair and he can use a new one.”

A wave of protectiveness surged up so ferociously in Bruce that he nearly shook with the force of it. 

_I’d rather give him to Dax Mantell than you or your spawn, old man! At least Dax wouldn’t torture Clark._

Bruce smiled pleasantly as he folded his arms. “Sorry, Edmund, my Prize is not for sale.”

“Ah, well.” Edmund shrugged. “A pity, but if you change your mind, let me know.” As Edmund walked away, twirling his cane, he said jovially, “If he was mine, he’d never close his legs or wear a stitch of clothing ever again.”

_Or know a moment’s peace._

Edmund turned back. “After all, any man who falls in love with such a creature is not worthy of respect, and his whore…well, he is far more vulnerable, don’t you agree?”

Edmund’s eyes glinted with some kind of evil, his smile pleasant and his step jaunty as he walked away for good this time. 

Bruce watched the old man go, a chill running down his spine as his eyes narrowed.

& & & & & &

Clark undressed in preparation for a shower. He glanced at his reflection in the full-length mirror hanging on the inside of the closet door.

He disliked looking at his reflection. It was always with a mild sense of shock that he looked at himself. No memory of himself growing up and his bedslave status was probably a part of his discomfort.

He decided to study himself critically. What did his Master see when he looked at him?

Shaking slightly, he forced himself to look in the mirror.

Puzzled, he didn’t understand why he was such an object of lust. 

His chest was smooth, but nothing that alluring. He’d seen better on the pleasure slave sites.

Blushing, he studied his arms. At least they were muscular and not muscle-bound.

His hands? He flexed his fingers. Way too big. Certainly not elegant like his Master’s.

Flat stomach. Always a plus!

He looked at his legs and feet. Big, clumsy; again, nothing special.

He turned. His back was okay, at least. And his shoulders were broad.

Buttocks? He blushed again. The word ‘doughy’ came to mind, but maybe they weren’t so bad after all. His Master wasn’t complaining!

His skin was a good, healthy color. That was fairly good.

Now the face.

Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to really study it.

The hair.

That was okay. It was a nice color and silky-soft. He used the best shampoos that Bruce provided to keep it that way. 

His nose wasn’t broken or misshapen, and he had to admit that his eyes were probably his best feature: sapphire-blue, framed by long, sooty lashes.

His mouth.

_A whore’s mouth._

He felt chilled as he remembered the slavers’ taunts. His trembling fingers brushed over his lips, remembering…and then quickly concentrated on the pleasure he could give his Master with his mouth.

He lowered his hand and his eyes fell to his cock. He had deliberately skipped over it until last.

 _A good length. Fits nicely in my Master’s hand_ , he thought with a touch of humor.

He sighed. He would never move with his Master’s cat-like grace. Next to Bruce, a sleek, high-spirited thoroughbred, he was just a plodding plowhorse.

His Master was not only graceful, he carried himself with an aristocratic air, and his looks matched: aquiline nose; full, almost sulky, mouth; dark, silky hair, and stunning, midnight-blue eyes framed by long lashes. 

He had broad shoulders, flat stomach, and tapered waist. Powerful thighs allowed him to leap over Gotham’s rooftops, and the elegant hands were nimble and strong.

The scars were battle scars, and Clark was proud of them.

He was proud of Bruce, period.

He was still confused as to why his Master had paid so much for him, and now he worried that his inadequacies were causing Bruce to lose interest. A glint of determination entered his eyes and he squared his shoulders.

_I’ll…I’ll just have to make up for that with enthusiasm and technique._

Satisfied to a degree, he went into the bathroom for his shower.

& & & & & &

Alfred busied himself with dinner preparations. He needed to cut up some vegetables for the salad and peel potatoes to mash.

He was amused at Clark’s research, then his smile faded. Could his young Master be tiring of his pleasure slave? He wasn’t the type to just throw things away, and that included his slaves. Alfred well knew the loyalty Bruce had, even toward a slave.

Alfred couldn’t accept Master Bruce simply tiring of Clark. The man who had rather sheepishly brought home a pleasure slave from that private auction would not toss him aside like an old shoe. Master Bruce had never kept a bedslave before, and yet had been captivated by this one.

Clark was not only beautiful but eager to please. Alfred was already extremely fond of him, glad for the gentle young man’s company.

And that eagerness to please?

Alfred suspected it was love. He carefully sliced tomatoes as he thought of all the signs: the willingness to please even beyond a slave’s duties, the worry in Clark’s eyes when the young Master went on patrol, the lighting of those same eyes whenever Master Bruce came home safe and sound.

Alfred was not sure if he was happy or disturbed by the possibility. A slave, especially one who served a Master so intimately, often fell in love, and usually got his heart broken. Alfred didn’t want to see Clark hurt.

Even more ambivalent were his feelings about his young Master falling for his slave. Did Master Bruce love Clark? Alfred thought he had seen some signs there as well, but they were not as clear as Clark’s were.

And what if Master Bruce did love Clark? The ramifications of such a state were numerous, and the overriding factor was loss of respect for the freeman if such a relationship became public, not to mention increased jeopardy for the slave. A Master who no longer commanded respect could not protect his slave as well as one who could.

Master Bruce had a responsibility to his family. As the Prince of Gotham, his lineage was clear, and bringing disgrace upon the family would shatter him.

Alfred sighed. All well and good, but he worried about the man he had raised after the murders of Thomas and Martha Wayne when the man was just an eight-year-old boy.

A man of singular purpose, driven and determined, but what of his happiness? Wouldn’t it be worth the risk for love?

“Hello, Alfred.”

The butler looked over at Bruce, who had just come in through the kitchen door.

“Hello, Master Bruce. Did your visit with Mister Carver go well?”

“Yes.” Bruce took off his scarf and jacket. “Where’s Clark?”

“In the study.”

“I’m going up to lie down for awhile.” He rubbed his eyes. “I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Alfred watched Bruce leave the kitchen. Perhaps his lessened interest in Clark was simply due to exhaustion. With the Joker on the loose, Master Bruce had been pushing himself hard.

Alfred turned on the radio while he took out the potatoes and began to peel them. Master Bruce was especially fond of his mashed potatoes and chives.

He knew that Clark liked them, too, and was especially fond of the garden-fresh vegetables Alfred prepared. Clark was always eager to work in the garden, and was looking forward to helping Alfred plant it next year.

Alfred always enjoyed spending time with Clark. He just hoped that the young Master would capture the Joker and get back to truly appreciating Clark.

He picked up some cucumbers and set to chopping.

_“…the owner of Sherwood Florist, the immensely successful chain of flowers shops in Star City, has announced plans to open her first shop here in Gotham City this spring. Ms. Dinah Lance is pleased that Gotham is welcoming her with open arms._

_“Ms. Kathy Kane, head of the local chapter of the National Abolitionist Society, is urging concerned citizens to contact their Congressmen-and-women and ask them to vote against the Branding Bill, scheduled for a vote in two weeks.”_

Alfred paused in the act of chopping. This bill worried him. He had no desire to suffer through the humiliation, not to mention the pain, of his inner thigh being branded. He was too old for these indignities!

 _Not to mention that he, nor anyone else, should suffer these indignities to begin with_. He chopped a little faster.

_“The Royal House of Jorelle has announced the betrothal of their King to a nobleman of one of the most prominent Houses on the Jovaran planet. The wedding will take place after the usual length of betrothal time…”_

People always were fascinated by royalty, no matter what planet they were from. He smiled as he thought of the fascination with Master Bruce and his princely title.

“Alfred, has Master Bruce returned home?”

Alfred turned to see Clark in the doorway. “Yes, he’s trying to get some sleep. He requested not to be disturbed.”

“I’ll be very quiet getting my book, then.”

& & & & & &

Clark entered the master bedroom, slipping through to the nightstand by the bed. He picked up the book he was currently reading, pausing to look down at the sleeping figure on the bed. Bruce was curled up on his side. A smile touched Clark’s lips.

Bruce stirred slightly, sighing. “Clark.”

Clark put down his book and knelt by the bed. Heart pounding, he tentatively reached out to touch Bruce’s cheek. Eyes fluttered open, joy in midnight-blue, then Bruce frowned.

“I asked not to be disturbed.”

“I’m sorry, Master, you spoke my name. I thought…”

“Oh.” Bruce rolled onto his back. “I need some more rest.” He lightly touched Clark’s hand, his eyes flickering over to the nightstand. “Go read your book as you’d planned.”

“Yes, Master.”

Clark rose from his knees, picked up the book, and went down the hall.

He had been rebuffed again, but not so severely this time. Maybe Bruce was getting more rest and would be more receptive to sex again.

_Not making love. I can’t let myself think that it’s anything more than sex for him._

Half-discouraged yet encouraged, Clark went down the staircase.


	23. Wings Across The Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce’s deepest fears consume him during one terrible night.

_Wings across  
The stars  
And the face  
Of the moon._

_Darkness falls,  
Like a cape,  
Blotting out  
the sun._

  


**Arthur Lance  
"The Death Of Freedom"  
2001 C.E.**

The Batman swooped down to the window in the brooding old building. He perched on the ledge, black cape fluttering gently out behind him. He raised the sash of the window, sliding in to blend with the shadows.

A single lamp burned on the oak desk, papers neatly arranged on the blotter. A gold-framed triptych faced away from him, but Batman knew that it contained three pictures: one of Jim Gordon, his deceased wife, and their daughter Barbara; one of him and Barbara a few years ago, and one of the pretty little girl today.

The Commissioner entered the office, his tread light on the worn floors. The building had been built in 1901, and the high ceilings kept the place from being too claustrophobic. The yellow-and-brown tiles were worn smooth from centuries of footsteps.

The paneling was dark wood, most of it the original like the floor tiles. Apparently the GCPD’s famed centuries of corruption had never carried over to lavish surroundings.

Batman made a slight noise. He had no wish to cause Jim Gordon a heart attack.

Jim looked over at the window. “Hello, Batman.”

“Commissioner.” Batman melted out of the shadows. “Do you have any leads on the Joker?”

“No, but I’ve got my snitches working, as you do.” Jim smiled slightly. “He’s gone to ground but could pop up at any time.” He ran a hand through his silver hair. “At least the Penguin and the Riddler have been quiet, and since you thwarted Catwoman at the Museum on Halloween, no signs of her, either.” 

“Good.”

The phone rang. “Excuse me.” Jim picked up the handset. “Gordon here.” He listened, surprise, then resignation showing on his face and he said, “All right, log it in.” He hung up the handset and took off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Sorry ‘bout that. Gotham General just notified me that the Caldwell slave died.”

“An unfortunate accident?” Batman’s gloves were clenched under his cape.

“Hardly.” Jim snorted. “The Caldwell scion, Harrison, got a little too rough with his pleasure slave, which doesn’t surprise me. Most of their slaves wind up with broken bones and other injuries, especially the pleasure slaves that Old Man Caldwell and his eldest son use up on a regular basis.” Jim sighed as he replaced his glasses. “Legally, the death of a slave caused by his Master must be recorded but of course there can be no investigation, not even for outright murder.” His tone was bitter.

“Perhaps a law can be passed?”

Jim smiled wearily. “I ‘m no abolitionist, but I’d welcome more restrictions on Masters. As it is now, they can torture these poor souls and if they die, the attitude is, so what? Some of them are better off dead after the mutilation some of them suffer.”

“Did you attend the National Abolitionist Society convention?”

Jim smiled ruefully. “No, the Police Commissioner can’t be seen at such a controversial event.” He crossed his arms. “Thanks for coming by, Batman. The Joker’s too elusive for either of us to tackle alone. So far his crime spree and his Joker venom are essentially harmless, as his victims recover within 24 hours, but he’ll turn to murder if left to roam free.”

Batman nodded. “I’ll keep in touch.”

He exited through the window, determined to protect his city.

& & & & & &

The screams shot up loud and clear through the night air. He found the luridly-grinning victim and his sobbing wife on the sidewalk in front of a popular Italian restaurant.

& & & & & &

The second victim was found in the parking lot of a seedy liquor store.

& & & & & &

The third victim was in Gotham Park, his little dog yipping frantically at the painfully-grinning face.

& & & & & &

Batman worked relentlessly but remained a frustrating step behind. He finally gave up for the night, returning to the Batcave at 3:36 A.M. Exhausted and frustrated, he showered and went upstairs.

Clark didn’t awaken as Bruce slid into bed, and the bone-tired man fell asleep in minutes.

& & & & & &

 _“Master, help me!”_

_The desperation in Clark’s voice cut through Bruce. He ran down a long, empty road, past woods and iron gates, the sky a slate-gray._

_At the end of the road, a dark forest behind him, a naked Clark was on his knees, scratches and bruises on his chest and arms, hand-shaped bruises on his thighs, blood running down his legs._

_Hands reached out from the darkness, grasping at Clark, slipping around his chest and waist, brutally twisting his nipples. A bearded face emerged, lips eagerly feasting on the back of Clark’s neck. Other figures emerged, dressed as Rigellian slavers, leering grins attaching themselves to naked skin._

_Clark’s hair was disheveled, a single curl dangling over his brow. His eyes were desperate behind his tinted glasses, his arms outstretched in entreaty. Rainbow colors sparkled around his neck and wrists as the only brightness in the darkness. The medallion that Bruce had given him on Halloween glinted at his throat just beneath his collar._

_Horrified, Bruce tried to run to Clark but his feet were rooted to the ground. A crowd of gray, faceless onlookers suddenly appeared in a semi-circle around Bruce. An enthusiastic slaver’s “Mmm” as he sucked on the back of Clark’s neck turned Bruce’s stomach._

_“Release my slave! The Prince of Gotham commands it!” he thundered._

_The onlookers and slavers burst out into mocking laughter. One of the onlookers sneered, “No one will obey you, Wayne. Your days of imperious command are over, you who fell in love with a **slave!”**_

_“Master…” Clark pleaded._

_Suddenly one of the onlookers stepped out from the crowd, gray morphing into purple-and-green as a leering grin chilled Bruce’s blood._

_“So, Brucie Wayne, not so tough now, eh, m’lord?” The Joker’s maniacal laughter rang out, his eyes glittering as he saw Clark. A gloved hand cupped Clark’s chin, the Joker’s eyes narrowing._

_Bruce strained to move, fear washing over him. Clark was so vulnerable; he couldn’t protect him; if the Joker touched him…_

_The Joker morphed again, and this time Bruce was able to move his legs. Hands grabbed before he got far and he cursed, trying to free himself._

_Edmund Caldwell’s pale gray eyes glittered. His thumb gently rubbed Clark’s chin, then grabbed his jaw, jerking his head up painfully. Fear shone in Clark’s eyes._

_“Mmm, delicious Prize.” His manicured hand ran down Clark’s throat and chest, then stroked his hip. His cane forced Clark’s legs apart. “Always open and ready, as a whore should be.” Edmund turned to look at Bruce, his smile wide. “No need of any wardrobe for this one.” He turned back, his cane tracing Clark’s lips. “That mouth is going to give so much pleasure.”_

_Another figure came out of the shadows._

_“We’re ready, Dad.”_

_Edmund smiled. “Excellent, Harrison.”_

_The slavers began dragging Clark into the yawning darkness._

_“Stop it!” yelled Bruce as he struggled wildly._

_“Master!” Clark screamed as he struggled, too, laughter from the onlookers, slavers, and Caldwells nearly drowning him out._

_“No! Stop it! He’s **my** slave! You can’t touch him!”_

_“Slave-lover!” spat Edmund. He yanked on Clark’s medallion with his cane and the chain broke, the jewelry falling to the ground._

_Clark’s lower body was disappearing into the blackness, his fingers clawing at the dirt. “Master!” he sobbed, blood trailing as he was dragged inexorably away._

_Bruce was crazed with fear, trying to break free. He screamed his throat raw as the laughter grew._

_Just before Clark disappeared into the darkness, his blue eyes glittered with tears. He said softly, “Master,” as if in farewell, then the darkness swallowed him up._

_“No! Claaarrrkkk!!!”_

_The moon broke through the clouds, silvering the gray figures around him. Edmund smiled and went into the darkness, cane twirling._

_“Clark, hold on! I’ll save you!”_

_**Slave-lover, slave-lover, slave-lover…** _

_The whispers grew, mocking and contemptuous. Bruce cursed and railed, demanding that he be let go._

_The screams began, freezing Bruce in his tracks._

_“Clark! No!!!”_

_Bruce’s screams mingled with Clark’s, two throats raw with agony, pain searing through Bruce’s heart as the hands let him go and he fell to his knees, still unable to move, unable to block out the screams and mocking laughter echoing from the depths of darkness, the starred medallion glinting in dirt and blood._

_The moon’s light was shadowed as a large, winged shape crossed the face of the moon, then began to tremble, falling away as the agonized screams broke the moon in two…_

& & & & & &

Bruce shot up, a silent scream caught in his throat. He tried to catch his breath, clutching his chest.

He looked down at Clark sleeping next to him, the nightmare still wild in his heart. Clark frowned as he moved restlessly in his sleep as if sensing Bruce’s agony. Bruce’s hand reached out to touch Clark’s face, tears blurring his vision, but he drew his hand back and curled up, his back to Clark as he tried to calm his shaking limbs and racing heart.


	24. The Rose And The Thorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce continues to distance himself from Clark after a warning and an accident.

_Hidden beneath the roses,  
Was the sharp-edged thorn.  
Piercing skin and his heart,  
Innocence shorn._

  


**Janice Greenleaf Whittier  
"Nature’s Gold And Other Poems"   
2007 C.E.**

Bruce slammed his fist on his desk. “Damnit, Lucius, this deal was close to completion! What the hell happened?”

Lucius sighed from the chair in front of Bruce’s desk. “Things just went south, Bruce.”

“That’s not good enough! I want to know what got fucked up!” Damnit, Alfred would wash my mouth out with soap. A sudden thought made him frown. “This wasn’t a Lexcorp grab, was it? Or Lex’s old man at Luthorcorp?”

“Not that it appears.”

Bruce slumped in his chair. He had been like a bear with a sore paw all morning. It was a wonder that Lucius hadn’t whacked him over the head with a chair.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I worked on this for weeks…” And I’ve been running myself ragged chasing a madman and last night I dreamed that the slave I love was raped to death…

“Well, sir, you can call Brick Braxton of Braxton Industries and get started trying to turn the tide there.”

“Okay.” All Bruce wanted was to crawl into bed and sleep for a week. Preferably with Clark. He punched the intercom button. “Andrea, get me Brick Braxton.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lucius rose and said, “Good luck, Bruce.”

“Thanks.”

The phone rang and Bruce picked it up, expecting Brick Braxton.

_“Hey, old buddy!”_

“Hey, Ollie!” He relaxed. “What’s up?”

 _“Oh, you know how it is. Busy night and day.”_ Bruce smiled. _“Just wanted to give you a heads-up.”_

“Oh?”

_“Yeah. The servant grapevine, slave and free, has it that ol’ Edmund Caldwell pitched a fit when he saw you at the Harvest Ball with Cl…your Prize.”_

Bruce frowned. “So what? It’s not against custom to bring a pleasure slave to a function like that.”

_“It might not be against custom but Old Man Caldwell considers it an insult just the same.”_

_“Again, so what?”_

__“Hey, just lettin’ you know, ol’ buddy!”_ Ollie’s light tone was underlaid with concern. _“According to the grapevine, he kept it civil at the Ball but once he got home he really ranted and raved. I think the word ‘disgrace’ was used a lot in between four-letter words, and a certain five-letter word applied to your Prize. You know that if Edmund gets it in his head that you are crossing him somehow, he could cause you no end of trouble.”__

_“Yeah.” Bruce rubbed between his eyes. He could feel the start of a killer headache. “Thanks, Ollie. It’s always good to have intel.”_

__“I thought so.”_ Bruce could hear the smile in Ollie’s voice. _“You take it easy, hear me?”__

_“I will. And say hello to Dinah for me.”_

__“Will do.”_ _

_Bruce hung up the phone, staring out the window. He had already put some distance between him and Clark, trying to sort through his emotions. Now he wondered if he should put more distance between them. If they were out in public and he looked at Clark with the look of love…someone like Edmund Caldwell would know right away, and Ollie was right. It would be no end of trouble._

_Especially for Clark._

__

& & & & & &

Clark wandered through the gardens, pleased that there were some late-blooming flowers that created splashes of color.

He breathed in the sea air, hands in the pockets of his jacket. The weather was growing colder and the ocean more restless now in late autumn. While some trees still held blazing colors, most of the leaves were off the trees now. Limbs stood stark and black against the sky, crows cawing as they flew from tree-to-tree.

Clark walked over to a wooden archway, vines entwined around the posts. Next June would see roses blooming here. He was careful not to prick his skin against the thorns.

He looked up and saw holes partially-hidden by the vines, one on each side. There were dark stains here and there on the wood.

Not an archway, nor a trellis, but a whipping post.

Clark ran his hand over the wood, careful of the thorns. He knew that Bruce’s parents had sold all the household slaves except for Alfred and a few elderly retainers when Bruce had been a young child. The elderly slaves eventually passed away and only Alfred remained.

Had this whipping post been used by Thomas and Martha Wayne to discipline their slaves, or had it been used by Thomas’ ancestors? Whatever the case, the symbolism of turning a whipping post into a rose trellis pleased him.

He was hopeful that Bruce would take a more active role in abolitionism. He understood why the man he loved could not be open about it. An abolitionist could not keep slaves, and Clark had no desire to be sold, but there were behind-the-scenes ways…

He stood and a wave of dizziness caused him to grab for the post, wincing as his hand was pierced by thorns. He felt slightly nauseated as his back twinged. He looked up at the crossbeam again, remembering the hellacious pain and the mocking laughter of the whipping he had endured at the Caldwell estate. His body trembled as he leaned against the post, trying to remain upright.

He bit his lip until the nausea passed. Depression settled over him as gently as a cloak. If his Master was truly tired of him…his stomach clenched and he felt sick again.

He _couldn’t_ be sent away! He would do _anything_ to stay. Not only was he terrified of the auction block, but he didn’t want to leave Bruce, no matter what.

He belonged with Bruce…whether slave or free.

He pushed away from the post and trudged up to the house. He hoped that Bruce would teach him how to help him by using the specialized computer in the Batcave via accessing and organizing files, learning details about past missions and criminals, and becoming a sounding board for him. Unfortunately, Bruce was far too busy right now and wasn’t exactly clamoring for his bedslave’s company.

He sighed as he entered the kitchen.

“Clark, Master Bruce is home early. He wishes you to dress for a trapeze session.”

_Flying!_

“Of course. I’ll go upstairs and change right away.”

Clark quickly went up the stairs, his joy suddenly tempered. He couldn’t fly today. He was too dizzy!

As he entered the bedroom he quickly changed. He’d be all right. He hadn’t been on the trapeze in so long, and he needed to serve his Master in other ways if he wasn’t desired in the bedroom anymore.

He hurried down to the gym.

& & & & & &

Bruce flexed his muscles, clenching and unclenching his hands. He needed practice, a sharpening-up of his flying skills, and Clark was a good partner.

It was all simply business, he told himself.

His slave entered the gym, dressed and ready.

“Let’s go.”

They started out with simple exercises, then progressed to a simple routine, then more complicated. Bruce began to relax for the first time that day.

Clark was sitting on the bar, swinging out, ready to hang upside down when he suddenly started to slip off the bar.

“Clark!”

Bruce reached out but couldn’t catch his slave, who plummeted to the net. Bruce swung to the platform and scrambled down the pole rungs.

Clark was shaking, Bruce helping him down from the net. He grasped Clark’s shoulders.

“What happened?!”

“I…I got dizzy.”

“Damn! Unlucky that it happened up there…” Bruce saw the guilt flicker in Clark’s eyes and an ugly suspicion began to form. “Wait…were you dizzy _before_ you went up there?!”

“I…I’m sorry, Master. You needed a partner…”

“I need a partner I can _trust!”_ Bruce shook him. “You could’ve been hurt or _killed!_ You could’ve gotten _me h_ urt!” Anger blazed in his eyes. “I need an _honest_ partner, Clark, to tell me if you’re 100%!”

He dropped his hands and stalked away.

“Master, I promise, it won’t happen again!”

But Bruce didn’t look back.

& & & & & &

Clark remained in the gym for at least thirty minutes, trying to quell his stomach and berating himself for stupidity. Of course Bruce was right! You had to trust your partner to tell you if you were sharp or not in such dangerous business. His own eagerness to fly and to be useful had caused him to cut corners with disastrous results.

He slowly rose to his feet and headed for the bedroom to shower and change for dinner.

At the top of the stairs he froze.

Alfred was carrying an armful of his clothes out of the master bedroom. He paused when he saw Clark, empathy in his hazel eyes.

Bruce appeared from the bedroom. “I’ve decided that it’s best this way for now. I need time…to think about some things.”

Clark was speechless, his hand trembling as it clutched the newell. Did Bruce look guilty for a split-second? But it was gone so quickly he couldn’t be sure. 

Bruce said as he walked past Clark, “Alfred, I’ll be dining in town.”

“Very good, sir.” 

Clark was still standing at the head of the stairs when he heard the front door shut. Alfred came out of the room next to Bruce’s and went back into the master bedroom. When he came back out with more clothing, he said, “Come on in, Clark.”

Clark obeyed his superior, his hand reflexively going to the medallion he wore, following Alfred into the room next to the master bedroom. He stood in the middle of the room, numbly cataloging the objects: a smaller bed but made up with fresh linens; a smaller dresser with neatly-arranged comb, brush, and hand mirror; a vintage 19th-century circus poster on one wall; a beautifully-painted rocking horse in one corner, and a window overlooking the gardens and ocean. 

Alfred came out of the adjoining bathroom. “All your toiletries are in there, and your clothes are in the closet and dresser.” He smiled fondly at the rocking horse and poster. “This was Master Bruce’s old room.” He poked around the old fireplace. “We keep up the cleaning of these, so you can light a fire if you wish.” Alfred glanced at the bed and went to the closet, took out a quilt, and laid it at the foot of the bed. He squeezed Clark’s shoulder. “Rest for awhile, then come down to the kitchen for dinner.” He closed the door behind him.

Clark remained motionless in the middle of his new room, still clutching the medallion that Bruce had given him the night of the Halloween Harvest Ball.


	25. The Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce recalls a special birthday gift from Clark.

_I think of you  
Night and day._

_Pray,_

_That I will never  
Stop._

  


**Arthur Lance  
"The Death Of Freedom"   
2001 C.E.**

The next few days were strained in the Wayne household. Bruce was consumed by the chasing of the acquisition by day and the Joker by night. He took no meals at the Manor, but when he was home, Clark did his best to be cheerful and was more eager to please than ever, and he continued the façade when he was alone with Alfred.

Alfred could see the distress, however. After his chores Clark took long walks in the cold around the estate, some of the light in his eyes dimmed.

Alfred had long suspected that Clark had fallen in love with his Master, which almost guaranteed him a broken heart, given the nature of the Master/slave dynamic.

The important question was: did Master Bruce feel the same?

Alfred pondered as he mixed the batter for a chocolate cake. The signs were there, but he could be wrong. Perhaps the young Master was simply tired of Clark, at least in the bedroom, but that did not fit. A man who had never kept a pleasure slave but who came home with one unexpectedly was not likely to tire of that slave quickly and toss him aside like a broken toy.

Alfred knew that some Masters sold off their slaves if they fell in love with them, some doing so at once, others gradually easing the beloved slave out of their beds and eventually, their lives, protecting themselves and their slaves. Certainly moving Clark out of the master bedroom could be the first step, but then, Bruce had chosen to keep Clark close by putting him in the very next room.

Alfred was torn. On the one hand he couldn’t blame the Master if he chose to sell Clark if love was indeed the case. If he was outed as Batman he would be destroyed, but outed as loving a slave would be just as destructive.

On the other hand, he wanted Clark to stay. Alfred knew part of his reasons were selfish: he greatly enjoyed the young man’s company, but he also believed he was good for Master Bruce. While risking the pressure of yet another secret life on top of the one that was Batman, the relationship could also help relieve the tremendous pressure, too. Bruce Wayne came across as supremely confident despite being only in his twenties, but he was a lonely young man.

And Clark was an enticing mix of vulnerability and strength. The vulnerability was obvious: he was gentle, kind, and eager to please beyond being a slave. 

His strength? Alfred was of the opinion that slaves were extremely strong to survive the horrors many suffered on a daily basis. Clark was steel beneath the gentle façade, a streak of stubbornness evidenced in the nasty Caldwell business and earlier in the slavers’ hands.

Alfred sighed. What was best for his poor boys?

The phone rang and he picked up the handset. “Oh, hello, Master Bruce. What am I doing? Baking a chocolate cake.” Alfred chuckled. “Yes, sir, your favorite. Will you be home for dinner? Ah, well, Clark and I will save you a piece. Very good, sir.”

Alfred hung up the phone, glancing out the window as Clark walked over to the seawall.

& & & & & &

Bruce hung up the phone, settling back in his chair behind the large desk in his plush office at Wayne Enterprises. The view of the city was magnificent, the centuries-old buildings mixing in with glass high-rises. 

Chocolate cake.

That had been his birthday cake. His birthday had been celebrated not so long ago, in the waning days of September, at the cherrywood desk in his study at Wayne Manor…

& & & & & &

 _“Master.”_

_Bruce looked up, pleased at his slave’s presence. Clark was dressed in a light-blue shirt and jeans, a shy smile on his face. Bruce loved that shyness._

_“Yes, Clark?”_

_“I want to wish you a Happy Birthday and give you your present.”_

_Interest piqued, Bruce settled back in his black leather chair._

_Clark suddenly leaned forward and kissed him. When he straightened up, he was unbuttoning his shirt, then slid to his knees._

_“I know you already own my body, but I wish to give it to you now.” Sapphire eyes sparkled. “Perhaps sex on the desk is something new?”_

_Bruce eyes widened. Bold moves, but this was his birthday, so permissible. A smile spread across his face._

_“It’s something new.” Bruce’s hand cupped Clark’s chin. “I happily accept your gift, my Starchild.”_

_Clark’s smile nearly dazzled him. His slave kissed his fingers, then buried his face in Bruce’s crotch, rubbing his cheek against the expensive fabric of his pants. Bruce shuddered, carding his fingers through soft, silky hair._

_Clark unzipped his pants and skillfully teased and nibbled hot flesh, bringing Bruce close to climax, then stopped and sat back on his heels, unbuttoning the remaining buttons of his shirt. Bruce slipped the shirt off his slave’s shoulders as he grasped him, giving Clark a hard kiss, his cock bobbing with pre-cum. With a growl Bruce lifted Clark up onto the desk, scattering papers and pens and yanking off the jeans, bending Clark’s legs back and opening him fully._

_Bruce grabbed the discarded jeans and dug out the tube of lubricant. He smiled at his slave’s preparation._

_**Just like a Boy Scout!** _

_Bruce coated them both, then eased in, pleasure suffusing Clark’s face. Bruce slipped out, then rammed in, stroking Clark’s prostate, a cry ripped out from his slave. His rhythm grew faster and stronger, Clark’s moans of pleasure egging him on until both climaxed at nearly the same moment. Clark’s fingers white-knuckled on the edge of the desk as Bruce tried to stay standing on rubbery legs._

_Clark gazed up at him beatifically._

_“Happy Birthday, Master.”_

_Bruce laughed and slid out, leaning forward with a kiss._

& & & & & &

Bruce sat flushed in his chair, his pants stretched out tight. Eyes closed, the memories of his birthday drifted away slowly.

**You can’t even last a single morning without thinking of him.**

_So what?_

**He’s too distracting. He keeps knocking you off your game. You broke your Code for him!**

_Don’t you think that disturbed me, breaking the Code? But it disturbed me more to watch him suffer for four more hours before applying the healing cream after Caldwell’s whipmaster scored his back. And I’d do it again!_

**Don’t you see? You’ll never keep focused with this slave in your life!**

_I know, I know!_

Bruce rubbed between his eyes, a headache developing.

Grimly he got back to work.


	26. The Sweet Taste Of Success

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce celebrates a major business success and enjoys dinner with Lex while pondering a difficult decision.

_"This Branding Bill is an abomination. Do we really want to enforce a law that mutilates valuable property, not to mention the human element in all this?"_

  


**Senator John F. Kennedy VI (D-MA)  
Speech given at Boston, Massachusetts   
September 27, 22—C.E.**

The next morning, Bruce raced down the staircase, grabbing his briefcase off the foyer table and dashing through the kitchen.

“No time for breakfast, Alfred, I’ll get something in town!” Bruce skidded to a halt in front of the kitchen door and turned back, distress on his face. “Today is the day for Clark’s injection.”

“I’ll take care of it, sir.”

Relief swept over Bruce’s face. “Thank you,” he said, then hurried out the door.

Alfred went upstairs and into the master bathroom. He had carried a jar of quinium from the refrigerator and took out the hypospray from the medicine cabinet. He then went next door, quietly entering the room.

Clark was sitting up in bed, the quilt around his shoulders and covering his chest. His eyes were slightly glazed from confusion. Blinking, he asked, “Alfred?”

The butler knew that Clark had been expecting Bruce. He sat on the bed, opening the jar. The red liquid shimmered.

“Master Bruce had to leave early.” He drew the required dose into the hypo. “Arm out, please.”

Clark obeyed and Alfred expertly applied the shot. He rose to leave.

“Alfred?” The butler turned, saddened to see tears brimming in Clark’s eyes. “What if Master Bruce s…sells me?”

Alfred sat back down and put a hand on Clark’s arm. “No matter what happens, I know you will endure. And this will always be your home.”

Alfred squeezed Clark’s arm and left, the memory of Clark rapidly blinking away tears making his heart ache.

He couldn’t offer false hope. Master Bruce might very well sell Clark.

He still wished he could do more.

& & & & & &

Clark was listless, not bothering to keep up a cheerful façade today. He was terribly confused and Alfred found him leaning against the wall, pale with dizziness. He immediately steered him to the couch in the study.

Just before lunchtime Bruce called and informed him that he was off to Metropolis in hot pursuit of the acquisition.

“Pack me a bag, Alfred, and send Brendan in with it.”

“Very good, sir. Good luck.”

“Thank you, Alfred.” He hesitated for a moment, then asked, “How is Clark?”

“A little under-the-weather, sir, but nothing unusual on the day of a shot.”

“All right.” Bruce sounded both relieved and worried. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

Alfred packed the bag, summoned Brendan, and gave the chauffeur instructions. Brendan nodded and took the bag.

Alfred passed the study and saw Clark half-awake. He went in and said, “Would you like some lunch?”

“I…maybe some crackers and ginger ale?”

“Certainly. Oh, Master Bruce will be in Metropolis pursuing his business acquisition. He’s not sure how long he’ll be.”

“Oh.” Sadness fleetingly crossed his face, then he smiled at Alfred. “Looks like just the two of us, Alfred.”

“It seems so.” Alfred answered with a smile of his own. He helped a groggy Clark to his feet.

& & & & & &

Bruce nearly danced out of the high-rise as dusk fell across Metropolis, swinging his briefcase. Success was always a heady elixir. His cellphone rang.

“Wayne here. Hello, Lex!” Astonishment crossed his face. “I only closed the deal a half hour ago!” Bruce laughed. “Yes, your sources are excellent! It’ll be all over the news by 11 o’clock.” Bruce stopped by a newsstand. “No, I’m not going back to Gotham tonight. I’m leaving early tomorrow morning. Oh, thank you for the offer of staying at the mansion, but I really need to get to bed early tonight. I wouldn’t be good company.” Bruce’s gaze idly roamed over the magazine covers. _Time_ shrilled, _Are We Ready To Go To War With The Collective?_ and _The Galactic Gazetteer_ emblazoned the upcoming royal wedding on Jovara. _Christianity In The 23rd Century_ featured _The Biblical Basis Of Slavery_ and _Newsweek’s_ cover story trumpeted _The Branding Bill: Clampdown On Runaway Slaves Or Forced Mutilation?_ “I can do a late dinner here in town, though. I’ll meet you at _Salazar’s.”_

Bruce flipped his cellphone shut and picked up the _Newsweek_ copy, paying the vendor as he flipped through the pages.

& & & & & &

 _Salazar’s_ was an Old Money establishment of understated taste and elegance, Bruce feeling right at home. Lex was waiting for him at a prominent table in front of the large windows that afforded a magnificent view of the city. 

Bruce shook hands and they both sat, the _maitre d’_ presenting them with large menus. Bruce read through the French side to practice his language skills, then he and Lex ordered an elaborate meal.

“A bottle of your finest champagne,” Lex added as he handed the menu to the waiter.

“Champagne?”

Lex smiled. “Of course. This is a big coup for you, Bruce. Braxton Industries is a major player.”

Bruce shrugged but he smiled. “Brick wanted out.”

“Yes, he’s retiring to Rigel, I here.”

“He’ll live like a king there. He’s still going to make money by holding stock options.”

“He’s a smart man.”

When the champagne arrived, Lex toasted Bruce. “To your success.”

“Thank you.” They clinked glasses and Bruce sipped the bubbly. “Excellent vintage.”

“So,” Lex said as he set his glass down, “you’ve had a busy time since Halloween.”

“Very.”

“Things have been relatively quiet here in Metropolis. Oh, there was a little dust-up around the National Abolitionist Society conference, but other than that, nothing much.”

“Dust-up?”

“Some protesters who didn’t like the idea of abolishing slavery.”

“Ah, we had the same thing in Gotham during their convention.”

“Yes, I heard that Batman had to intervene.”

“I heard that, too.”

“Sounded like he headed off trouble.”

“Seems to be his mission.”

“Hmm, he’s a vigilante.”

Bruce shrugged. “He cleans up the criminal element. The Gotham P.D. has a notorious history of corruption, though things are far better now under Jim Gordon.”

Lex looked at the magazine lying atop Bruce’s briefcase. “So, are you for or against this Branding Bill?”

“Against,” Bruce said and took another sip of champagne. “You?” 

“Against.” Lex watched their waiter approach with a basket of rolls. “I don’t like slave mutilation, and I don’t like being told what to do with my slaves.”

“Strange bedfellows opposing this bill.”

Lex laughed. “Yes, slaveowners and abolitionists. Who would have thought?”

“Life is strange.”

Lex took out a wheat roll and buttered it. “Quite a quandary for the abos.”

“Oh, working against a bill that defeats oversight of slaveowners?”

“Yes.”

“Well, forcing owners to brand slaves isn’t what they’re looking for.”

“I can see why you wouldn’t want your bedslave branded.” At Bruce’s uneasy look Lex asked, “What is it, Bruce? Is Clark all right?”

“He’s fine, but…I’ve asked Ollie if he would be interested in taking him if I sell Clark. I’ve got him as first choice, Lex, because of your…”

“Ah, yes, my father. Well, I don’t mind being second on the list, if that’s what you’re asking.” At Bruce’s nod he inquired, “But why, Bruce? I thought he was what you wanted. You sure went after him at the auction.”

Bruce smiled ruefully. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

Lex waved his hand airily. “Spoils of war. I enjoyed the battle.” He frowned. “Being bored with him so quickly doesn’t seem like you.”

“He’s just not working out.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Lex recalled the stories surrounding Thomas Wayne and his bedslave and hoped it wasn’t a case of _déjà vu._

“Well, I’m just putting out feelers.”

Bruce’s discomfort spoke of ambivalence. Lex wondered at the problems but perhaps it would all blow over. He remembered how captivated Bruce was at the auction and couldn’t believe that a man so intent on winning that bid would simply get rid of his prized slave.

Their appetizers arrived and they moved on to another topic.

& & & & & &

As they ate excellent entrees, night fell over the city, stars twinkling in the sky.

Bruce felt some guilt about being away from Gotham, but perhaps a night away would give him a fresh perspective on the Joker.

“Ah, Bruce. How nice to see you.”

Bruce looked up to see Lionel Luthor smiling at him. The man’s wild mane was magnificent, Bruce had to admit.

“Hello, Lionel.”

They shook hands and Lex said, “I didn’t know you were in town, Dad.”

“Oh, you know me. I always turn up.”

“Like a bad penny,” Lex said dryly.

Lionel laughed and asked Bruce, “I assume you are celebrating your new acquisition?”

“News travels fast on the Luthor grapevine,” Bruce said in amusement.

“We _do_ keep our ears to the ground.”

“Have a seat, Dad,” Lex sighed.

“Thank you, son.” As Lionel sat, the waiter approached. “Just coffee, please. Aldebaran roast beans.”

“You’re a cheap date, Dad.”

“I’ll order dessert when you do.”

Bruce knew that Lionel liked to cultivate a dissolute, debauched image, and while part of that was true, he knew the steel underneath the act. Lionel was an extremely sharp and ruthless businessman and regularly poached on his son’s territory, including slaves, enjoying orgies and a long line of bondsmen-and-women, whether pleasure slaves or not.

“And where is your Prize, Bruce? Back at the hotel waiting for you?”

“Actually, back at the Manor.”

“A pity.” Lionel sipped the coffee that had just been placed before him. “You must be missing his talents.”

Protectiveness surged up in Bruce. “He’s fine.”

“Good.” Lionel took a long draught. “Far better than Harrison Caldwell’s poor slave.”

“What happened to him?” Lex asked with a frown.

“Died of his wounds.”

Lex looked grim and Bruce looked down at his plate, his hands curling into fists on his lap.

“Typical of the Caldwells, though,” Lionel continued. “I don’t understand people like that. Slaves, especially of the pleasure variety, are valuable. Why train a slave to your…tastes…and then damage them so severely?” Bruce looked up as Lionel shook his head. “I’ll admit to getting a little…enthusiastic…with my games at times, but I’ve never sent a slave to the hospital, much less buried one because of my pleasure!”

For a second, pride flickered through Lex’s eyes, then he said, “So, Dad, you believe in the care and feeding of slaves?”

“Oh, absolutely, son.” Lionel’s teeth bared in a grin. “Possessing a slave with a talented mouth and ability to take on two at once is valuable indeed.” 

Bruce’s stomach fluttered and he frowned as Lionel’s eyes glittered.


	27. A Quiet Evening With Popcorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark and Alfred spend a quiet evening together bonding closer while Bruce is out on the town.

_"Lovers come and go, but friends are forever."_

  


**Eldred Gerry  
Lecturer and Novelist   
1863 C.E.**

Bruce was welcomed at home with congratulations for the successful acquisition. Alfred proposed a special dinner.

“Thank you, Alfred. Can I take a raincheck? I’ve being feted by some business colleagues tonight with a little soiree.”

“Excellent, sir.” Alfred’s eyes shone with pride.

Clark was also proud. He wished that Bruce would stay home but understood. A slight headache throbbed between his eyes, but he kept a smile on his face. His Master did seem less angry about the trapeze incident and was quite cheerful tonight.

Bruce dressed in his finest tuxedo and looked stunning. Clark was speechless.

_Little wonder that he’s Gotham’s most eligible bachelor._

Clark sighed. He was beginning to feel a little like Cinderella left home while Bruce was off to the ball. Unfortunately, there was no fairy godmother to make his collar and manacles disappear.

“Clark.”

“Yes, Master?”

“You look a little tired. Try and get some rest, will you?” Bruce said quietly.

Hope surged in Clark’s heart. “I’ll try, sir.”

“Good.” Bruce adjusted his tie. “Don’t either of you wait up. It’s going to be a long night.” He smiled rakishly and took his long coat and tossed it over his shoulder, walking out the front door to his waiting limousine.

& & & & & &

Alfred was certain that Clark was besotted. The look of longing on his face when he looked at Bruce clinched it.

After dinner Alfred suggested, “Why don’t we have some popcorn while we watch some telly?”

“All right.”

Alfred was glad he had suggested the time together. They watched a British mystery, to Alfred’s delight, and the popcorn was good. Clark seemed to be relaxing.

“I’ll get us some more popcorn,” Clark offered.

“Thank you.”

Alfred changed the channel.

_“Here we are at Club Maxine as the banquet honoring the Prince of Gotham is ending. The brightest lights of the city attended the dinner to honor Bruce Wayne, who just engineered a major business coup for Wayne Enterprises. Seen here is Mr. Wayne, leaving the club with Ms. Silver St. Cloud, top supermodel and former girlfriend of Gotham’s favorite son.”_

Bruce Wayne smiled at the crowd, the diaphanous Silver St. Cloud on his arm. Her gown was white shot through with silver threads, a white silk wrap around her arms. A diamond bracelet glittered at her wrist while a diamond necklace sparkled at her throat. Her platinum-blond hair was long and silky, framing a face that the camera loved. Light-blue eyes twinkled as she projected an aura of happiness.

Alfred was surprised. Master Bruce had not dated in months, but when he did, it was either Silver or Vicki Vale. His surprise came from the fact that the Master usually mentioned when he was going to squire either lady about town.

Clark sat down, offering Alfred the popcorn. His eyes were fixed on the screen.

“Ah, here we go! And thank you for getting the popcorn, Clark.”

“You’re welcome.”

After a few minutes of popcorn-munching, Alfred said, “Clark, you do understand that Master Bruce must keep up a certain image to help deflect from his night persona?”

Clark looked at him. “I do.” He blushed slightly. “I know what my duties are, and that doesn’t mean Master Bruce isn’t going to go out with others.” He frowned. “And least, my duties _used_ to be serving him in bed. If I could just ask why…” He stopped and smiled slightly. “But I know: never, _ever_ be presumptuous.”

Alfred patted his hand. “I ask that you have patience, Clark. Master Bruce is working things out in his head. I recognize the signs,” he said wryly. Clark chuckled. “But patience and understanding will be your best assets. You can be frustrated and angry, but it is advisable not to let the Master know it.” Alfred’s voice was gentle. “Despite his behavior lately, Master Bruce has kindness in his heart. It is sometimes difficult for him to show it.”

Clark twisted his hand to grasp Alfred’s. “I know, Alfred. I’ll wait as long as it takes to find out why…well, as long as Master Bruce doesn’t sell…send me away, I will always serve him the best I can.”

Alfred squeezed his hand with a smile. 

After the end of the program an hour later, Clark said, “I’m tired. I think I’ll go to bed.”

“Of course. See you in the morning.”

& & & & & &

Clark slowly entered his room, unbuttoning his shirt. He smiled faintly at the circus poster. It was a vintage 1888 poster featuring Haly’s Circus, one of the oldest ‘little circuses’ in the country. It was a colorful rendition of elephants, clowns, jugglers, aerialists, tigers and a trick rider on horseback.

So Bruce had been a circus fan as a child. Not surprising, given his love of the trapeze.

Clark’s smile faded, remembering the last disastrous session on the trapeze.

He brushed his teeth and finished undressing. Climbing into bed, he pulled the covers up, including the extra quilt. He could have worn pajamas but a part of him was still waiting for Bruce to avail himself of his services, and he had to be ready.

He shivered under the covers. It was more pathetic than ever, considering his Master was out with the beautiful Silver St. Cloud.

Yet he had no claim on Bruce. His Master certainly didn’t love him, and he had to be as different s possible from Batman, and that meant playing the playboy game. 

What if Bruce brought home Ms. St. Cloud? And what if he wanted to share his Prize with her?

Clark lifted his chin. He would serve and make Bruce proud of him. That is, if he was to see Bruce’s bed again.

Demanding answers was the quickest way to punch a ticket out of Wayne Manor. Bruce was lenient in many ways, but he would not countenance insolence.

He sighed. Falling in love with one’s Master was guaranteed to cause complications. He touched the medallion that hung below his collar.

He curled up on his side, starting to warm up under the layers of covers.

& & & & & &

 _He flew through dark skies, cries echoing from far below. Fear drove him on, an urgency that hurt somewhere deep inside of him._

_He swooped down, voices reaching up in hosanna, then he was enveloped by a green mist. It coated his skin, burning as he gasped, and he began to fall, clutching at his throat as he couldn’t breathe._

_The darkness yawned up at him as he plummeted, stray thoughts of Bruce flitting through his mind as he tried to fly, rainbow manacles appearing on his wrists and a collar around his throat, but all was lost as fire burned through his veins, melting him from the inside out as he screamed…_

& & & & & &

Clark shook as he sat bolt upright in bed, his throat raw as his screams echoed in the dark room. The door opened.

“Clark?”

“I’m…I’m sorry, Alfred. I didn’t…didn’t mean to wake you.” Clark couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering as he clutched the covers to his chest. Nausea roiled his stomach. He was very glad he wasn’t standing, because the room was beginning to spin.

Alfred sat on the edge of the bed, dressed in a rich, dark-blue robe. Clark was aware of his nakedness under the sheet and nearly blushed at how pathetic he must look, waiting for a Master who might never come.

“Never apologize, dear boy, for a nightmare.” By the moonlight, Clark could see the sympathy in Alfred’s eyes. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Clark’s first instinct was to reply in the negative, but he changed his mind. He slowly recounted the dream.

“Hmm, well, flying is something we all dream about. Do you know whose cries you heard?”

Clark shook his head. “I just felt a sense of urgency.”

“Also not unusual in dreams.” Alfred frowned. “But this green mist that pained you: highly unusual.”

Clark felt his heart rate begin to return to normal as Alfred calmly tried to unravel the dream’s meaning. He was accustomed to Bruce’s comfort after a nightmare, but Alfred’s kindness was helping him. He felt a rush of gratitude toward the older man.

Alfred patted Clark’s hand. “Would you like to come downstairs for a little while? I can make us some hot chocolate or whatever you’d like.”

Feeling guilty at keeping Alfred up, Clark said, “I’ll be fine now. Thank you, Alfred.”

“Any time, Clark. I’m always here if you need me.”

A half-smile crossed Clark’s face. Alfred left the room, Clark curling up under the blankets, trying to relax, not sure if he wanted to go back to sleep.

& & & & & &

Alfred prepared breakfast. He had checked in on Clark, who was sleeping but looked exhausted.

The back door opened and Bruce sauntered in, wearing his clothes from last night, his tie hanging undone. At Alfred’s raised eyebrow, he said, “Good morning to you, too, Alfred.”

“Good morning, sir. Are scrambled eggs to your liking?”

“Tip-top, Alfred.” I’m going upstairs to change.”

Alfred hesitated before breaking the eggs. He put them back untouched in the refrigerator and went upstairs.

In Bruce’s room, the Master of the house was sitting on his bed looking tired. He looked up at Alfred appearing in the doorway.

“Yes?”

“Sir, I wasn’t aware you had started dating again.”

Amusement flittered across Bruce’s face. “I _do_ have an image to maintain.”

“The Playboy of the Western World?”

Bruce laughed softly. “Fitting title.” He rubbed his face. “I dropped Silver off at her place around 2:00. I had Brendan take me to the penthouse. After he fell asleep I did a little night work.”

“The Joker is still elusive, sir?”

“Very much so.” Bruce’s voice was weariness itself.

Sympathy flooded Alfred. He patted the younger man’s shoulder. “Breakfast in fifteen minutes, sir.” He turned to go, then turned back. “Sir, what are your intentions toward Clark?”

Amusement once again showed on Bruce’s face. “Intentions? I’m not printing up wedding invitations, Alfred.”

Alfred’s mouth quirked into a smile. “No, sir, but you have moved him out of your room.” _And your bed._ “Have you changed your mind about him?”

Bruce’s face was unreadable but he said, “I have a decision to make. I intend to make it soon and not drag it out.” He coughed. “Is he all right? I noticed he looked a little flushed when I looked in on him.”

“Ah, yes, he’s under quite a lot of covers, sir.”

Bruce nodded. “I’ll be down in fifteen.”

“Yes, sir.”

Encouraged by the concern, Alfred went back downstairs to the kitchen.

Perhaps it would be enough to keep Clark here.


	28. The Taste Of Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Batman catches up to the Joker with disastrous results.

_The stench of failure  
Clings to me,  
Like soot  
From hell._

_It burns my skin,  
Marking me,  
The taste of ashes  
Bitter  
In my mouth._

  


**Gavin Rentell  
Rigellian Author   
"My Soul Possessed"   
6,789 B.C.E.**

“So, Batty, I hear you’ve been looking for me?”

The mocking voice echoed in the cavernous warehouse. Batman’s lensed eyes scanned every possible crevice, searching for the gaudy clown colors.

“You’ve been a busy man.” His raspy voice reverberated off the concrete walls.

Maniacal laughter bounced off those walls. “Yes, my venom has cheered up quite a few of Gotham’s stodgy citizenry. This city needs to lighten up.” A giggle. “So do you, Batsy.”

Batman began a circuitous move around the warehouse. He did not hear any minions scurrying away in the shadows. Maybe he had gotten lucky and caught the Joker alone.

“I’m thrilled that my little crime spree is attracting so much attention. Well, I guess that fits, eh? Clowns are born for the spotlight. We are performers at heart, you know. Love the applause, making people laugh!”

Batman flowed up a rusted iron ladder, soundless as a Ninja. He crept along the catwalk. 

The Joker whistled the traditional circus calliope music then said, “You know the circus is such a _happy_ place. The smell of popcorn, the dazzle of sequined costumes, the majesty of the elephants.” Whistling again. “They have people who fly there. Just like a bat, eh, Bats?”

Suddenly, the world exploded.

& & & & & &

Jim Gordon picked up the telephone. “Gordon here.” He frowned. “Send all available squad cars.” He set down the phone, then rose from his desk chair and strode downstairs to the squadroom. “My driver,” he snapped.

& & & & & &

Batman coughed violently as he swam up to consciousness. Smoke filled the dark warehouse, clogging his lungs. He raged against the beams that pinned him to the concrete floor, and with a great surge of strength threw the heavy rotted wood off his legs, a shower of ash coating him. Grunting, he scrambled up and hobbled to where he remembered the exit was located. Fire burned at the far end of the room.

Grimacing at the pain in his left thigh, Batman left the burning warehouse, clenching his fists. Sirens were wailing in the distance.

Batman cursed as he stumbled and fell, his ragged cape trailing behind him. Blood oozed from several cuts on his arms, torso, and legs.

A dark car with a siren on top pulled up. Jim Gordon got out of the back seat and called, “Batman!” He hurried over.

“Commissioner,” Batman said through gritted teeth.

Jim helped him to his feet. “Let’s get an EMT to check you out.”

“No.” Batman pulled away from Jim’s grip. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s all right.” The rasping voice grew soft. “Really, Jim.”

Jim considered, then nodded. “The Joker?” A grim nod. “We’ll handle this. Go home and get some rest.”

Batman nodded again and limped away, Jim watching him go.

& & & & & &

The rage fueled Batman as he drove the Batmobile into the Cave. He parked it and limped out, peeling off his costume. His injured thigh was almost entirely black-and-blue.

A shower was next. He could get all his cuts cleaned and wash away the stink of defeat.

The smell of smoke clung to him as he entered the shower. He turned it on full-force.

He stood under the showerhead as the water pelted him.

He had succeeded in his business life, but this life, the one that dealt with life-and-death, he was failing on a nightly basis.

The stakes were higher than untold billions of dollars.

The stakes here were untold millions of people in Gotham.

Bruce rested his forehead against the shower stall.

Pity his rage and failure couldn’t be washed away as easily as the blood from his body, the taste of ashes in his mouth.


	29. Stormy Seas...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While a storm rages outside Wayne Manor, another brews within.

_The storm lashes  
Like a whip,  
Stinging,  
Clinging,  
Bringing pain._

Let it howl,  
Let it growl,  
Trees bend,  
Hope’s end,  
Pain’s cowl.

  


**Addie Cutler  
  
"Drive-Through Thoughts  
  
And Other Poems"  
  
2030 C.E.**

Clark woke to what Alfred cheerfully informed him was a “typical November day on the Gotham coastline”. All night the rain had poured, hitting the roof with a steady drumming, and it lashed against the Manor as the wind howled. He and Alfred took breakfast in the kitchen as Bruce slept upstairs.

Intrigued by the wild weather, Clark put on a slicker and boots and walked around the gardens. Leaves blew in frenzied arcs and flowers and trees bent down to the wet ground as if in supplication. The sea was gray-green, reflecting a stormy sky, waves rising to eye-popping heights as they crashed on the rocks below. The wind sounded mournful as it buffeted the high ground around the Manor.

Clark was careful not to stray too far from the house. He had awakened under-the-weather with a mild case of nausea, some dizziness, and a low-grade headache that lurked at the edges of consciousness, just waiting to develop into a full-blown migraine. 

The storm reminded him of Bruce: wild and passionate and capable of great destruction. Bruce literally held his life in his hands and could shatter it in an instant if he wanted to do so.

Clark hoped that the consideration and compassion he had seen in his Master would subdue that power, and Clark’s love for him colored that hope. Hurt at Bruce’s new coldness toward him, he was wracking his brain to get back into his Master’s good graces. If he was to no longer be a pleasure slave, he would have to become useful elsewhere. 

Of course, that wildness and power of Bruce’s was fascinating as well with its own beauty, as compelling to watch as he was drawn to the raging ocean right here and now. He passed the old whipping post, then stood hunched against the wind, observing the whitecaps bobbing on the sea.

Clark enjoyed the spectacle of the storm for a little while longer, then walked up back to the house.

“Ah, did you enjoy your walk?” asked Alfred in amusement as Clark entered the kitchen.

Clark laughed a little. “Sorry to be so wet.”

“Hang the slicker on the rack. I’ve put newspapers on the floor for it and your boots.”

Clark obeyed, then put on his glasses. The smell of brewing tea drifted from the copper kettle on the stove.

“Master Bruce is up and in the library. See if he wants some tea or some breakfast. Wait, let me pour a cup to take to him.” 

Alfred prepared the tea and handed the cup to Clark, who headed for the library.

& & & & & &

Bruce sipped the glass of wine as he stared with a scowl at the portrait of his parents. It was dark in the library because he had not turned on a single light. Instead he sat in the stormy dark, the only sound that of the shrieking wind, dead ashes in the unlit fireplace.

His parents smiled serenely at him, hands on his small shoulders as his younger self smiled happily. His father stood beside the ornately-carved chair in which his mother sat, the very chair in which he sat right now, and his younger self stood in front of his father, close to his mother.

_Our family stretches back generations, Bruce. You’re the heir to a proud name, son. The people of Gotham look up to us. This is our fiefdom, and while we receive respected tribute, it means we must take care of those who look to us for help._

_Never disgrace the family name, Bruce._

Bruce took another sip of wine. He looked at his father’s clear blue eyes.

_Is that why you sold Jamie, Dad? Not only because Mom demanded it, but because you knew the knowledge of what you felt for your slave, if it became public, would do exactly what you warned me against?_

His brooding grew darker as rain lashed the windows.

Rage grew.

Rage at once again failing his city, his family’s birthright.

Rage at falling in love with his beautiful pleasure slave, jeopardizing his family’s name.

Rage at that love putting Clark in graver danger than ever.

He drained his glass. Now he was jeopardizing his patrol tonight with drinking, which he hardly ever imbibed in aside from sips of champagne at charity events.

His ribs were sore and his thigh throbbed. It was entirely covered in a sickly yellow-green. He couldn’t risk flying tonight. Keeping to ground would have to do.

A dull headache throbbed behind his eyes. He had to stop being a coward, make some decisions…

“Master.” The soft voice of his slave at the entrance to the library pierced him. “Alfred sent me with some tea and would like to know if you would like breakfast…”

“Leave me.”

The voice was imperious…and ice-cold.

Clark blinked. The teacup shook slightly.

“Yes, Master,” he said softly, and backed out of the room.

Bruce stared at the portrait, the wind howling outside.

& & & & & &

Clark leaned back against the wall in the hall, clenching and unclenching his right hand, squeezing his eyes shut, his collar and manacles icy-cold on his skin.

He had never hated his slavery more.

If he wasn’t manacled, he could march right back into the room and coax, cajole and demand to know what was bothering Bruce, though he suspected it was depression, since he was staring at his parents’ portrait. That cold voice had barely restrained a towering rage, which was frightening for him and Bruce.

He would have risked it if he didn’t feel he was on such thin ice. He was willing to risk punishment, even willing to risk Bruce’s anger and being dragged down to the old whipping post if that was what it took.

He wanted to help the man he loved, but…insolence was the quickest way to get sent packing.

Ever since he had awakened in the slavers’ camp, after the shock of realizing his fate, after being bought by Bruce, he had come to terms with his status in a resigned sort of way. He was born a slave and would die a slave, and that meant heartache and his life always under someone else’s control.

Whenever he had a rebellious thought, pain always sliced through his head. 

_Maybe my subconscious is trying to tell me something,_ he thought with wry amusement. 

Yet being here with his Master gave him a joy that he cherished and didn’t want to lose.

Sighing, he pushed away from the wall and returned the now-cold tea to the kitchen.

“He didn’t want the tea or breakfast, Alfred. He’s just sitting in the dark, brooding.”

“Staring at the portrait?” At Clark’s nod, Alfred counseled, “When he is in this mood, best to steer clear of him, Clark.”

Clark nodded again. He left the kitchen and stood uncertainly in the hall. What should he do?

Read. That always relaxed him. He was reading a new novel, _The Mystery Of The Harlot’s Heart_ , by one of his favorite authors, Lois Lane. He had checked the library yesterday but it was not there.

_My Master’s bedroom._

He almost snapped his fingers. He had left the book in there before his banishment!

Unfortunately, his Master had also forbidden him to enter the room in a fit of pique a few days ago.

He dithered, but then decided he would just go in and out quickly and grab the book. He hurried up the stairs, slowing down to grab the banister as dizziness threatened.

Entering the bedroom, he felt a pang at his banishment. He glanced at the bed, blushing slightly, then spotted the book. He quickly picked it up and left the room.

& & & & & &

Furious at his stupidity for drinking, Bruce slammed the glass down and stood, wincing at the pain in his head and leg. He gritted his teeth as he forced himself not to hobble,  
windows rattling with the force of the gale outside. He would take a nap before patrol and try and sleep off the alcohol.

He painfully began to climb the grand staircase.


	30. ...To Thy Knees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storm hits.

_Stormy seas,  
To thy knees,  
Scream thy pain,  
Let it rain._

  


**Emily Adams Cutler  
"Yellow Roses And Other Poems"  
1859 C.E.**

Clark riffled through the book, trying to find his place as he emerged from the bedroom.

“Damnit!”

He turned at Bruce’s snarl, shocked at the speed of Bruce as his Master grabbed him, wincing as his head slammed against the wall. His dull headache blossomed into fiery pain.

Bruce’s face was inches from his own, the smell of alcohol on his breath. Clark held the book tight to his chest, a skitter of fear running through him. The lights flickered for an instant.

Face contorted with rage, Bruce ground out, “Didn’t I tell you to stay out of my room?” He pulled Clark to him, then slammed him against the wall again.

“I’m…I’m sorry, Master.”

“’Sorry’ doesn’t cut it, Clark. You’ve got a bad habit of disobedience. And I really don’t need a pleasure slave anymore.”

“Master, please…”

 _“Enough!”_ Bruce thundered. “I’m…I’m tired of you! I need my peace back! I can’t _do_ this anymore!” A final slam knocked the book out of Clark’s hand and it thudded to the floor. The wind howled as the windows rattled. “I’m putting you on the block!”

Bruce let Clark go, then turned and strode away. 

Shock washed over Clark. “No, Master, please! Don’t send me away!”

What he had feared at the edges of his mind had come horribly true. Terror welled up in him as he thought of being put back in the slavers’ hands, the unknown of an auction, leaving Wayne Manor where he felt safe, and most of all, leaving Bruce.

He started forward, stumbling as a wave of dizziness hit him, sending him crashing to his knees with a jolt of pain. His hand stretched out beseechingly.

“Master, please,” he begged softly.

Was that a split-second of hesitation?

But Bruce did not turn around.

Clark had not cried when he had been tortured and humiliated by the slavers.

He had not cried as he had suffered the same fate at the hands of the Knickerbocker Hall guards.

He had not cried during the humiliation of the auction, exposed for all to see.

He had built up walls, necessary survival for a slave, enabling him to get up and face the day every morning, keep him going in a world that despised and humiliated him, his only refuge here at Wayne Manor, in the arms of Bruce Wayne…

…until now.

The dam broke: great, tearing, sobs cascading over crumbling walls…

& & & & & &

Bruce saw red. He climbed the grand staircase, cursing the pain in his leg.

As he reached the top, he saw Clark emerging from his bedroom. Tired of being angry with himself, he focused his anger on Clark.

Driven by rage, he pounced. He saw Clark wince as his head bounced against the wall. The lights flickered as he saw a flash of fear in Clark’s eyes.

That vulnerability angered Bruce even more.

_I can’t protect him. I can’t protect **anybody!**_

He heard the roar of gunfire and screams in the dark alley that haunted his dreams…

“Didn’t I tell you to stay out of my room?” He slammed Clark against the wall again. 

“I’m…I’m sorry, Master.”

“’Sorry’ doesn’t cut it, Clark. You’ve got a bad habit of disobedience. And I really don’t need a pleasure slave anymore.”

He felt sick as he saw the growing fear in his slave’s eyes.

“Master, please…”

 _“Enough!”_ He was dimly aware of the storm raging against the house. It felt as if a storm was raging inside him, carrying him along on waves of fury that he couldn’t control. “I’m…I’m tired of you! I need my peace back. I can’t _do_ this anymore!” As if the hands belonged to someone else, he slammed Clark against the wall a final time. The wind shrieked as something screamed inside of him, blazing through him like cold fire. “I’m putting you on the block!” 

Bruce turned away. Dimly he heard Clark’s pleas but resolutely ignored him.

It was for the best, really, for the best. He would call Ollie and see if he would take Clark right away. Clark was better off without him. He didn’t need a crazy man for a Master.

He had never raised a hand in anger to a slave in his life, and he just done so three times to Clark! Sick with guilt he grasped at straws: he couldn’t stay focused as Batman if he was in love, his family’s reputation was teetering on the edge of his weakness, and Clark was at such great risk that he would be far safer in Star City.

It was for the best.

And maybe Clark would hate him enough now not to regret leaving.

Guilty over threatening Clark with the block, he almost turned back to assure him that it would be a private sale, but decided against it. He was truly frightened of what he would do next unless he got his rage under control. He had to cool off. Once he arranged things with Ollie and calmed down, he would face Clark and tell him that he would not be going on the block with all of its humiliations and uncertainties.

He heard the soft plea behind him even over the sound of the howling wind.

“Master, please.”

He nearly turned around but squared his shoulders. He had to stick to his decision. Clark would be safe (away from him); it was all for the best, really, he sucked at love and would hurt Clark over and over again, he had to keep him safe…

An agonized sound made him turn around. 

For the second time in his life, his heart broke.

He ran back, all his carefully-ordered arguments and rationalizations melting away as he slid to his knees, putting his arm around Clark as his slave grabbed his other arm, clinging to him as he sobbed, “Please don’t send me away! Please, Master! I’m sorry! Don’t send me away!”

“I won’t; I promise; I’m so sorry…”

Bruce knew that he was lost. He couldn’t fight it anymore. Tears began to stream down his face as Clark cried out his terror and desperation.

Bruce stroked his hair, rubbed his back, and rocked back and forth with him as he pleaded, “I’m sorry; I love you; I’ll never sell you; forgive me…”

& & & & & &

Alfred quietly walked up the stairs and to the master bedroom. He nudged the door open and peered in.

An exhausted Bruce and Clark lay on the bed on top of the coverlet, holding each other as they slept, both with tear-stained faces.

It was all right, though. The building tension had finally reached a crescendo and broken in the storm of tears that matched the autumn storm that had by now lessened its fury. Rain still pelted the windows but it wasn’t as violent anymore.

Alfred withdrew, picking up the fallen book that had triggered the explosion. He went downstairs to the kitchen, almost whistling.

After such emotional catharsis, perhaps they would want only a light meal. Or perhaps they would be ravenous. At any rate, he would prepare something light and if necessary, whip up something more. After all, that was what microwaves were for.

There was a great deal that the two had to work out, but his boys would be all right now.


	31. Rainbows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new day dawns at Wayne Manor.

_"Do you love me, Master?"_

_"Yes, I do.  
I will love you  
‘Til the end of time._

_You are mine."_

  


**Ancient Rigellian Sonnet  
From the 12th Century, B.C.E.**

Bruce awoke, his eyes swollen. He saw Clark lying next to him, face tear-streaked as he slept, exhausted. Bruce gently stroked his slave’s face.

The slave he loved.

Clark’s heartfelt sobs had broken Bruce’s heart. His resolve, shaky at best, had melted away under the onslaught of those tears. Seeing his beloved slave sobbing his heart out, begging not to be sold despite all Bruce had done to him was the final straw.

All his carefully-crafted reasons not to love Clark, not to keep him, were still valid. Clark made him lose focus as Batman; discovery of Bruce’s love for him would tarnish his family’s name; he was now more vulnerable than ever as a slave.

Bruce couldn’t give him up.

**Weak, emotional response.**

_Yeah, maybe, but I don’t care._

Bruce allowed himself to feel the love he had suppressed for weeks. He couldn’t stand the loneliness anymore. Even though Clark didn’t love him, loving Clark would be enough. A great wave of protectiveness washed over him. He had to keep Clark safe, more than ever now… 

Clark’s eyes fluttered, red-rimmed but still beautiful. “Master…” he croaked.

“Shh, it’s all right. I’m not selling you. I swear I never will…”

Fresh tears welled in Clark’s reddened eyes and he grasped Bruce’s hand.

“I’m sorry I made you angry.”

Bruce shook his head incredulously. He stroked his slave’s face. “It wasn’t your fault.” _Gods, I’d never struck a slave in anger before in my life._ “Things have been building up for awhile.” Bruce sat up. He took a deep breath. “I swear I won’t ever sell you, Clark. You have my word.” He didn’t use the words ‘Honor Served’ but they hung in the air between them, a great honor, as those words were only used between gentlemen.

“Thank you,” Clark said, complete trust and belief in his eyes.

Bruce nodded with a small smile.

Light dawned in Clark’s sapphire-blue eyes. “You said you loved me.”

A little jolt went through Bruce. Clark would probably lose all respect for him, but he deserved the truth.

“Yes,” he whispered.

& & & & & &

Clark’s heart soared. From his worst nightmare came his greatest joy.

“I love you, too,” he breathed.

Rueful sadness filled Bruce’s eyes. “You don’t have to say that, Clark. I know you’re grateful to me since you have no memories and can’t make comparisons…”

Clark squeezed his hand. “No, Master, I’m grateful, but it doesn’t matter that I can’t remember my past. This I _do_ know: I belong with you, slave or free, and I _truly_ love you.”

Hope blossomed in Bruce’s midnight-blue eyes. “Clark…?”

Clark nodded and suddenly Bruce hugged him fiercely. He held on tight, joy singing in his veins.

When they broke apart, Bruce was smiling.

“It appears that we’re both on the same page, then.” At Clark’s nod Bruce sobered. “Clark, I have committed my society’s unpardonable sin, and we’ll have to hide this from everyone, except Alfred, of course, but he already knows…” they both grinned “…because my family’s name will be…be…”

“I understand, Master.”

“Good.” Bruce took a deep breath. “You’re at risk, too. If I lose respect, it’ll be harder to protect you.” Bruce looked grim for a moment. “From people like the Caldwells.” 

Clark shuddered. “Then we must be very careful.” Sudden understanding dawned in his eyes. “Master, is that why…why you were pushing me away?”

Guilt flooded Bruce. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I’m the Master, the one who should be in control, and the one to protect you, Clark. I couldn’t protect you if what we felt for each other became public knowledge.” He swallowed. “I’m being very selfish in keeping you.”

Compassion shone in Clark’s eyes and he took Bruce’s hand. “I understand your reasons now.”

“I…I don’t have any right to ask this, but if you can someday find it in your heart to forgive me…” Shame suffused his features. 

Clark kissed Bruce’s fingers. “I already have forgiven you, Master.” At Bruce’s shocked expression, he explained, “I know what this society can drive a man to do. I’ve seen it close up.” He shivered at unpleasant memories.

“I can’t…promise…I won’t hurt you again,” Bruce said miserably.

“I know.” Clark’s expression was serene. “I know that you might have to hurt me in the future because of the constraints of this society. I don’t like it, but I understand it.” He squeezed Bruce’s hand. “But you don’t have to carry all these burdens alone, Master. I know that you are the one responsible for me and Alfred and this house and your estate and family legacy, and that doesn’t even cover your duties as the Batman. The weight must crush you at times. I’m here to help you relieve some of that burden, even if only talking things over with me.”

Bruce brushed away a fresh welling of tears. “I can’t promise I can do that, either. I’m…not very good at talking about…things.”

Clark’s smile was infinitely loving. “Just know that I am here for you.”

Bruce nodded, looking a little shellshocked at being first forgiven and then offered Clark’s patience and compassion. “Clark, this new relationship of ours…I can allow you more liberties and indulge you even beyond that of a pampered and cherished pleasure slave, but I still will require obedience.” He slipped his hand out of Clark’s grasp and twisted his fingers in a nervous gesture. 

Touched by that show of nervousness, Clark nodded. “I understand, Master.” He lifted his arm and tapped the manacle sparkling in the sunlight streaming through the window. The rain had stopped and the skies had cleared, a rainbow arching over the grounds, matching Clark’s manacle. “These haven’t changed, but you love me.” Life would be more complicated now but far happier, too. 

Bruce kissed the top of his head, taking hold of Clark’s hand. He leaned back with a shaky smile. “One thing: if you wish to call me ‘Bruce’ while in private or in Alfred’s presence, that’s fine.” 

“But Alfred doesn’t…?” His eyes asked the question of whether the butler’s feelings would be hurt.

“I’ve given him that option, but being British and a butler, he won’t hear of it!” Both men grinned. “He won’t begrudge you the privilege.”

Bruce ducked his head. “Clark, I’m sorry for everything…”

Clark touched Bruce’s chin and gently lifted it, struck by the shimmering of tears in the beautiful eyes. He said softly, “I love you, and you love me. You gave me your promise never to sell me. As long as I have those two things, I can endure anything.”

A tear slid down Bruce’s cheek and he pulled Clark into a tight hug.

A knock on the door broke them apart. Bruce wiped his eyes as Alfred poked his head in. 

“Are you up to a light repast, gentlemen?”

Bruce nodded. “We’ll be right down, Alfred.”

Alfred withdrew with a serene expression. All was right with his world.

Clark looked at Bruce. The road ahead would not be easy. They were going to have to work out the new parameters of their relationship while Clark still wore the manacles and collar, but it would be a journey worth taking.

Hand-in-hand, they went downstairs to join Alfred.


	32. Jewel Of The Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce enjoys his slave…and his lover.

_And the Prince smiled  
As his Jewel sparkled._

_He carefully polished and  
Crafted his Jewel,_

_The sun setting him to shine  
Like a firestone  
Of red-and-yellow  
Spirit, and blue like  
A sapphire’s sea._

_His Jewel was precious,  
Owned by him,  
In body and soul,  
And yet…_

_As lover._

_The most precious  
Jewel  
Of all.  
_

**J.M. Simon  
"Enchanted Fairy Tales"  
1963 C.E.**

Bruce, Clark, and Alfred enjoyed chicken, salad, and green beans in the kitchen. Alfred required no explanations as he simply knew, just as Bruce had said. 

Laughter and joy filled the kitchen, lights lit to stave off the encroaching darkness. Another rainstorm had moved in, not as wild as the last one, but steadily drumming on the roof.

Bruce looked out the window. “No patrol tonight. Not even the Joker will be out on a night like this.”

Instead, after dinner Clark helped Alfred clean up while Bruce made a business call, then all three retired to the living room and watched the news, Bruce smiling as he saw Dinah Lance being interviewed, her plans for opening a new flower shop in Gotham welcome news as her chain was expanding beyond Star City.

Clark was curled up beside him on the couch, and Bruce’s arm tightened around him as a story on the Branding Bill came on-screen and his cousin’s cheerful face appeared.

_“We have quite a few votes lined up to defeat this heinous bill. We will be in full force in the galleries when the vote is taken Thanksgiving week.”_

Bruce was proud of Kathy. She and people like Martha Kent were upholding their convictions.

After the news they watched a few programs, the soft light of the lamps creating a cozy glow as the rain came down steadily.

Bruce considered himself very lucky. Clark had forgiven him for all that he had suffered, and _loved_ him to boot!

He was in awe of that thought: his gentle, loyal slave loved him. He wasn’t merely grateful for good treatment and a safe haven from brothels or owners like the Caldwells (Bruce shuddered). He _loved_ Bruce.

Truth had shone from Clark’s eyes.

The ancient grandfather clock in the library chimed eleven.

“Bed,” Bruce whispered in Clark’s ear.

They said goodnight to Alfred and walked up the stairs and into the bedroom.

Alfred had been busy. All of Clark’s possessions were back in the master bedroom, “where they belong,” according to the butler. Bruce couldn’t argue with that. 

They stood in the center of the room at the foot of the bed, Bruce’s hands on Clark’s shoulders.

“My Starchild,” he whispered.

He kissed Clark tenderly and then began undressing him. Clark copied him and soon they were both naked, drinking in each other’s beauty. Bruce led Clark to the bed and stretched him out on his back.

“Let me love you,” Bruce murmured, and he began raining gentle kisses on Clark’s brow, eyelids, throat and chest, trailing down to his groin, Clark moaning softly. He cupped Clark’s cock, brushing his lips over it, delighted, at his lover’s moan. 

His own cock bobbed and Clark’s hand touched him, sending little sparks of electricity through his body. Skillful fingers brought him to gasping excitement, and he quickly prepared them both. He slid in, Clark’s lashes fluttering, and Bruce took his hand and kissed it.

He watched the pleasure and love radiate from his slave’s face, and his lonely heart filled as he moved in and out of Clark’s body, claiming him as lover as well as slave.

Clark gazed into his face with shining eyes. He was a bright sun of happiness, little gasps and moans pleasuring Bruce.

Pleasure tingled through him as he took hold of Clark’s cock, delighting his lover as his own climax built up until it exploded deep within Clark, his lover’s seed spilling over his belly as the rain came down harder outside.

“Mine,” he breathed, and Clark understood the double meaning of the word.

“I am yours, always,” Clark whispered, and Bruce said, “I love you,” a pure happiness that he had never known before spreading through his heart and mind like molten gold.

Possession.

Prize.

Beloved.


	33. Showdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to bring in the Joker.

_The Bat  
Seeks the darkness,  
Silk and ebony,  
While his Beloved  
Waits  
At home’s hearth._

  


**The Freedom Chronicles  
2363 C.E.**

The darkness was like velvet, enclosing him as he slipped through the warehouse. Silence was as heavy as the darkness, the only noise the creak of the walls as the wind blew harshly.

Gotham was in the grip of nasty weather, even the criminals staying inside at night.

This warehouse was empty, or it appeared to be. A siren screamed faintly in the distance. A rustling sound, probably that of a nocturnal animal, was loud in the quiet.

A different rustling was heard next. Soft, sibilant, silken. 

The Batman settled back into the shadows, his home-away-from-home. A small smile creased his face. He did not move, one with the darkness.

Voices.

They came closer.

“But, Boss, what’s the plan? Stealing more pocketbooks and wallets?”

“Ah, Maxie. Always the curious type, aren’t you? Well, why can’t I just keep my skills sharp? Does everything have to be some grand master plan?”

“Don’t supervillains always have one?”

Amused laughter. “Usually, but even supervillains have off days.” His voice grew contemplative. “But you’re right, maybe it’s time to kick it up a notch.” Batman could imagine the crazed smile. “Maybe the Joker venom should become a real venom.”

“Whoa, I didn’t mean that, Boss! I mean, y’know, a big score!”

“Are you chickening out on me, Maxie?”

“N…No, Boss!” Fear laced the crook’s voice, and with good reason.

“Good. I have no use for chickens who can’t cross the road.” Cackling. “Now, let’s see, I wouldn’t mind bumping off that pesky Commissioner Gordon.”

Batman moved. He exploded out of the darkness, the Joker shrieking in rage, and Maxie pulled out his gun. Easily disarming the gangster, Batman went after the fleeing Joker. He kept his focus, training his attention on his quarry like a bat using radar to track its prey.

He caught his prey as the Joker screamed, just short of an over-sized, red-painted plunger.

_If the Joker wasn’t so fond of the outsized and outlandish, he could have blown us all up back there with a hand-held trigger._

Grateful this time for arrogant madness, Batman knocked his nemesis out.

Maxie walked over, rubbing his wrist.

“Sorry about that,” Batman said.

“All in a day’s work,” was the cheerful reply.

“Do you have everything?”

Maxie held up a tiny tape recorder. “Got it all.”

“Excellent. Good work, Detective Maxwell.”

“Thanks, Batman.”

& & & & & &

Jim Gordon looked up from the paperwork on his desk.

“The Joker is on his way with Detective Maxwell.” Batman crouched on the windowsill.

Jim nodded. “Thank you, Batman.”

Batman nodded and flew away like his namesake.

& & & & & &

Batman parked the Batmobile in its slot and got out, limping slightly as he approached the man in a cobalt-blue robe.

Clark smiled. “I heard about the Joker’s capture on the police band. Congratulations.”

Batman pulled his slave close to him, bestowing a possessive kiss that turned tender. When they parted, Clark whispered, “I’ll be waiting upstairs, Master.”

The Batman smiled as he watched his lover go up the stone steps to the Manor.


	34. Brandings' Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will the Branding Bill pass or be defeated? The vote begins…

_"How can anyone in good conscience support this heinous bill? Is it because they enjoy the smell of burning flesh and the sound of the crackling fire, hearing the screams of the slaves forced to suffer?"_

  


**Martha Kent  
National Abolitionist Society  
22—C.E.**

The kitchen hummed with laughter, talk, and the low sound of the radio. Alfred was in his element, supervising his two helpers as they prepared certain foods the day before Thanksgiving. The smells of pumpkin pie baking filled the room as apple pies cooled on a wire rack and Clark peeled apples for another pie. Bruce was putting the finishing touches on a mince pie.

As was Wayne tradition, Bruce had donated full Thanksgiving dinners to every food pantry and shelter in the city. That included commercially-made pies, but for a small shelter in the heart of downtown, which was the first shelter that Thomas and Martha Wayne had founded, Alfred’s home-baked pies were provided. Representatives from the shelter would be here later to pick them up, and there would be plenty left for the Wayne Household to enjoy.

Master Bruce was happy, probably truly so for the first time in years, and Clark was like a miniature sun, his happiness overflowing. 

Alfred had hated to put a damper on that glow, but he had cautioned his fellow slave to be careful, as the young Master would still expect obedience.

“I know, Alfred. I know this isn’t going to be your usual romantic relationship, but I’m more than willing to accept how it will be. I believe that Bruce and I can work things out.” He smiled. “I would still have to deal with a Prince even if I was free.”

Alfred had laughed in agreement and smiled now at the memory. 

He had also noticed Clark’s manner of address, and that the younger slave still used ‘Master’ even in private most of the time. Alfred approved. It would help Clark stay in the habit while in public.

Alfred checked on the turkey thawing in the refrigerator. He preferred cooking it the old-fashioned way for several hours in an oven, juices simmering, rather than a seconds-long zap in the microwave. The smell of the turkey would permeate the house, and it would remind him of happier times in this house.

Not that happy times weren’t being created now. Once the young Master decided upon a course of action, he usually went ahead on full steam. Now that he had acknowledged his love for Clark, there would be no more pushing him away, or talk of the auction block, which he had assured Alfred had never been his intention. “Private sale was my intention,” and that most likely meant Oliver Queen or Lex Luthor. 

Alfred had felt relief and pride. Even in the throes of darkness, his young Master would not be so cruel as to throw Clark to the slavers and put him on public sale, or even a private auction like the one at which Master Bruce had originally purchased his pleasure slave. No, it would have been a private one-on-one sale.

 _“The vote on the Branding Bill is coming up now…”_ said the radio announcer.

“Go. I’ll get the last pie in,” Bruce said.

Clark and Alfred washed their hands, untied aprons, and headed for the living room and the TV.

& & & & & &

Bruce carefully crimped the edges of the cinnamon-dusted crust, then took out the pumpkin pies and replaced them with two apple pies. He washed his hands and dried them with a tea towel, heading for the living room.

GBS was panning the Senate galleries, packed with supporters and opponents of the bill. The abolitionists wore rainbow sashes and buttons with the slogan, **Freedom Now!** Supporters of the bill wore green-and-black buttons that said, **Brand All Slaves!**

Ambivalence threaded through Bruce. Oh, he definitely wanted the bill defeated. The pain and humiliation that its passing would cause Alfred and Clark was something Bruce wanted to avoid at all costs. 

Guilt flooded over Bruce. The whole thing was so absurd! Why should anyone’s health or happiness be put to a vote?

_They shouldn’t be slaves. No one should._

**They would leave you if they were free.**

_No, they wouldn’t._

_And if they did? At least they would have free choice._

Bruce was disturbed by Congress passing laws to tell him what to do as a Master. He knew how to take care of his slaves, thank you very much. Unfortunately, other Masters were abusive. Owners like the Caldwells were reprehensible sadists and could use reining in.

Again, he felt guilty as he watched Alfred and Clark on the couch. They were tense but still trying to keep things light and optimistic. 

_Both exceptional men, and yet they have to watch this vote and wonder if they’ll have their flesh burned if the bill passes._

Bruce folded his arms. 

_Like hell! I’ll bribe the branders if I have to. They are **not** going to be branded, end of story!_

The whole situation was ironic, too. If the NAS helped stop this bill, they would be affirming a hands-off approach that would sabotage further efforts down the line.

_Not that it would make any difference if they succeeded in passing laws to dictate to Masters. If they broke those laws, unless there were free witnesses willing to rat on fellow owners, what would come of it? Slaves can’t testify, even in crimes against themselves._

Bruce hoped that the bill would go down in flames.

There was a space between Alfred and Clark on the couch. Bruce slowly approached and sat down, watching the coverage.

_“We’re talking to Ms. Kathy Kane, head of the Gotham chapter of the National Abolitionist Society. Ms. Kane, what is your take on the upcoming Branding Bill?”_

_“Well, Chet, the people opposed to such a bill are out in full force today. We’re in the galleries and are protesting outside the Capitol and all across this nation against this barbaric practice. Branding slaves has fallen out of practice in the last few generations, and we hope to keep it that way.”_

_“So you’ve been working on this for quite some time?”_

Kathy nodded. _“Yes, very much so. We’ve flooded Congress with e-mails, letters, and petitions. We have made our voices known, and we hope that our elected representatives will do the right thing. It’s so important that Congress is delaying its usual Thanksgiving recess to vote on this.”_

_“Thank you, Ms. Kane.”_

_“Thank you, Chet. I’m going to join my allies in the galleries.”_

As the camera started to pan the packed galleries, Clark rose. “I need some water. Would anyone else like some?”

“Yes, please,” answered Alfred, and Bruce nodded.

Bruce watched with interest, smiling as the camera caught Martha Kent. Her husband was next to her, and there wasn’t an empty seat to be seen except on Martha’s other side. He guessed that was Kathy’s seat.

He watched with interest as the camera showed the bill’s supporters. They were as confident as the opponents, laughing and joking. 

_“Now we have Ms. Carol Napier, head of the American Association of Slaveowners. Ms. Napier, your thoughts?”_

The bird-like little woman, glasses perched on the end of her nose, smiled prettily. 

_“Well, Chet, we are confident that this bill will not pass. Slaveowners don’t need to be told how to treat our slaves. We don’t need Congress sticking their noses into our business.”_

_“I must disagree, Ms. Napier.”_

Carol and Chet turned to see the newcomer. Conroy Arnold, prominent Star City businessman, smiled unctuously as the camera widened its angle to focus on him.

_“Really, Mr. Arnold?”_

_“Yes, Ms. Napier. This bill will help us enforce the law against runaways.”_

Carol raised an eyebrow. _“I wasn’t aware that we had an epidemic of runaways.”_

_“We need to consolidate our power as slaveowners, and this will do that. Branding reinforces our belief that slaves are property, and will combat the silly, granola-crunching notion that they deserve rights or consideration as if they were free people. The bill will pass.”_

_“Thank you, Mr. Arnold. Now, Reverend Bingham, what is your take on this bill?”_

_“Well, Chet, we of the American Council of Churches heartily support this bill. The Bible supports slavery, therefore it is divine will that makes it so. We must support this bill to ensure that our society remain as it should. It is our moral duty.”_

Bruce rolled his eyes as he accepted a bottle of water from Clark. He drank from its icy-cold goodness as he watched the silvery-haired reverend expound on biblical theory.

_“Thank you, Reverend.”_

Bruce noticed Alfred’s tense posture. He gently laid his hand over the butler’s. Startled, Alfred looked at him, then relaxed a little. They exchanged small smiles.

“The vote is beginning.”

The 100 senators were at their desks ready to stand up and be counted. After the Civil War, North and South had divided into the United States and the Confederate States of America. Before a generation had passed, the CSA had merged back into the USA when it became evident that European powers were more than delighted to see the continent divided, trying more than once to take advantage of the situation. Once again the country was united, and the old CSA states had very few NAS chapters.

Bruce wondered if the NAS and their allies could pull this off. At the very least, it was going to be a close vote.

The roll call began.

_“Senator Allgood from Alaska.”_

_“No.”_

_“Senator Nawlins from Alaska.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Senator Briggs from Arkansas.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Senator Jessup from Arkansas.”_

_“Yes.”_

The vote tally appeared at the bottom of the screen. The Alabama senators had voted ‘Yes’ for passage.

Bruce drank more water, butterflies fluttering in his stomach as the ‘Yes’ votes slowly began to pile up. Surely this wasn’t going to be a landslide…

_“Senator M’butu from Colorado.”_

_“No.”_

_“Senator Frobisher from Connecticut.”_

_“No.”_

The vote was seesawing, then the ‘Yes’ votes were out ahead again.

_“Senator McGee from Maine.”_

_“No.”_

Tension built up as the Wayne Household watched. The tally was almost even, a minimum of 51 votes necessary for passage or defeat. 

_“Senator Queen from Maine.”_

_“No.”_

Ollie’s cousin.

Bruce squeezed Clark’s hand.

_“Senator Brady from Massachusetts.”_

_“No.”_

_“Senator Kennedy from Massachusetts.”_

_“No.”_

Bruce felt his old thigh injury throb. He could feel Clark’s hand tremble.

_“Senator Fisher from Michigan.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Senator Santana from Michigan.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Senator Prince from New Hampshire.”_

_“No.”_

_“Senator McCracken from New Hampshire.”_

_“No.”_

Alfred was sitting ramrod-straight.

_“Senator Freneau from New Mexico.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Senator Rodriguez from New Mexico.”_

_“Yes.”_

Bruce was beginning to sweat. Truly, these… _people_ …in Congress couldn’t actually _pass_ this law?

_“Senator Keystone from Pennsylvania.”_

_“Yes.”_

It was close, too close.

_“Senator Pilaski from Pennsylvania.”_

_“Yes.”_

Bruce could feel Clark’s trembling increase as he grasped his hand.

_“Senator Kyushi from Rhode Island.”_

_“No.”_

_“Senator Rossetti from Rhose Island.”_

_“No.”_

_“Senator Marshall from South Carolina.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Senator Cargill from South Carolina.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Senator D’Alessandro from South Dakota.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Senator Solon from South Dakota.”_

_“Yes.”_

The roll call went on relentlessly, the tally still so close…

_“Senator McKinnon from Utah.”_

_“No.”_

_“Senator Scully from Utah.”_

_“No.”_

_“Senator Lee from Virginia.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Senator Pickett from Virginia.”_

_“Yes.”_

Finally, after more senators were called, it was down to the nitty-gritty: if the next vote was ‘No’, the bill would be defeated. If ‘Yes’, the vote would be tied, with the Vice President breaking the tie with his vote. He had already declared his support of the bill.

Anxiety was high as the next name was called.

_“Senator Drake from Wyoming.”_

Everyone in the galleries, in the Wayne Household, and across America, held their collective breath.

_“No.”_

Final tally: 51 No, 49 Yes.

Cheers went up from the NAS part of the galleries, the supporters of the bill disgusted.

Bruce hugged Alfred, then turned to Clark, who was smiling joyously. They hugged, too, and Bruce felt very thankful, indeed.

He would have to send a nice, big check to Kathy the day after tomorrow.

And ideas for further involvement were percolating in his mind.

The rest of the baking and preliminary cooking went very well in the kitchen with three very happy men.

& & & & & &

For the first time in many years, Bruce felt thankful on the holiday dedicated to that emotion. For Alfred’s sake he had allowed the holiday to be celebrated at Wayne Manor, though holidays meant very little to him since his parents’ deaths.

This year Alfred cooked a bigger turkey and went all out on the traditional trimmings: stuffing, cranberry sauce, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, and salad. Bruce helped Alfred and Clark bring in the food to the dining room, seating himself at the head of the table as his companions joined him.

For a moment he hesitated. It was all well and good for him to be thankful, but he felt a little awkward. Why should slaves feel thankful for being enslaved?

He took a deep breath and decided to proceed.

“I am very thankful for the life I have, and am very thankful for Alfred, my lifelong friend who has served me with such devotion over the years.” Alfred looked down at his plate, embarrassed. Bruce smiled affectionately. “And Clark! I’m very thankful you came into my life this year.”

“So am I, Bruce,” Clark said softly.

Pleased, Bruce raised his glass. “To the Wayne Household.”

Alfred and Clark raised their glasses, echoing “To the Wayne Household.”

Bruce thought of the close vote on the Branding Bill and knew he had even more to be thankful for.

They happily dug into the Thanksgiving dinner.


	35. Sunlight-On-Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During the Christmas season, Bruce takes stock of the special people in his life.

_The winds are harsh  
And the air is cold,  
Within the home,  
‘Tis silver and gold._

_‘Tis the season  
For garland and bow,  
Skies of blue,  
And sunlight- on-snow._

_By the crackling fire  
Warmth melts the ice,  
Love resides here,  
Ginger ‘n’ spice._

  


**Emily Adams Cutler  
"Yellow Roses And Other Poems"  
1859 C.E.**

Wayne Manor was ablaze with light.

Tasteful decorations were artfully arranged in the foyer, from evergreen-scented garlands entwined on the Grand Staircase to vases of holly on the tables. Silver-and-gold garlands streamed through the greenery, and in the living room a giant Christmas tree awash in silver-and-gold and delicate, airy, glass ornaments dominated one corner of the room. An heirloom gold star decorated in sapphires and topazes glittered at the top of the tree.

Sparkling decorations mixed in with more evergreens and red bows on the exterior of the Manor. Some of the spruce and evergreen trees had been decorated by Clark and Alfred.

Just as with Thanksgiving, Bruce was feeling the emotion of the holiday for the first time in years. He had allowed its form for Alfred’s sake but had not felt its spirit.

Now, it was as if he was seeing things through Clark’s eyes. Clark could not remember if he had ever celebrated Christmas, but the holiday delighted him. He had eagerly helped Alfred with the decorations, and Bruce had even joined in to decorate the giant tree in the living room. The glittery garlands and baubles reflected in Clark’s glasses, his blue eyes big and full of wonder, and Bruce was utterly charmed.

Bruce entered the living room, Clark staring up at the tree.

“Clark?” he asked softly.

“I feel as if I remember this.”

“Remember what?”

“A tree. A house filled with warmth and the smells of good food coming from the kitchen.”

“Is it a specific place, or more of a feeling?”

Clark reached out to touch a dangling glass ornament.

“A feeling.”

Bruce wasn’t surprised. Clark must have been raised in an extraordinarily-good home, considering his virginity had been intact until his mid-twenties. Some Masters raised especially-beautiful slaves in isolation in order to command high prices, as virgins were highly-prized on the market, and some owners simply were good people, raising slaves without using them for sex when they came of age.

Though in Bruce’s experience, Clark would have been pegged to eventually make spreading his legs his primary slave function.

He lightly kissed Clark’s cheek.

They sat on the couch by the fireplace, a fire merrily crackling away. Alfred provided hot chocolate, Bruce smiling over the tiny marshmallows floating on top. Alfred took a seat in the corner, reading a book.

Snow fell lightly outside the window. Bruce felt more content than he had in years.

He and Clark talked softly, Bruce always happy during these little conversations. He was thrilled that brains came with the beauty.

Clark was the catalyst for all this contentment, and Bruce was happy to acknowledge that. His reasons for pushing Clark away were still valid, but he was done with all that now. He had committed to Clark. Hell, if Clark were a freeman he would have proposed marriage by now.

The morning passed to afternoon, Alfred going to prepare lunch. Clark was reading and Bruce moved to the window, sitting on the windowseat.

The snow had stopped, winter sunlight creating glittering diamonds on the white expanse covering the grounds. It was beauty that Bruce always loved to see.

His gaze fell on the smoke tree that his mother had planted the year he was six.

_Sorry, Mom, I’m too much my father’s son._

He had tried to emulate his father and send a beloved slave away, but Clark’s anguished tears had breached his own walls, and he could never re-build them as long as he had his beautiful lover.

His foundation of denial had been shaky, for which he was eternally grateful.

_How could you have sent Jamie away, Dad? Did you think of him every day, keep tabs on him? How much did it break your heart to give him up?_

His father had been a stronger man, because in the end Bruce could not go through with parting from Clark.

_Still, I don’t have a free spouse I also love. I can keep Clark. I just need to be very, very careful._

New Year’s was not that far away. Bruce sat back, watching a cardinal hop blood-red against the snow. It was a time for resolutions.

He was going to contact Martha Kent after the holidays.

He curled up on the windowseat. He had not let someone into his life for years. He had a very tight circle of family and friends. 

There were a handful of friends he cared very much about. Ollie and Lex were on the top of the list, Bruce enjoying their friendly business rivalry and their shared backgrounds, and he knew he would give any help that they needed.

He also considered Dinah Lance, Ollie’s girlfriend, a friend. She was bright and witty and now that he knew she was the hard-kicking Black Canary, even more impressed. 

He cared personally for a handful of relatives, Kathy No. 1 on the list. He also valued Lucius as a business associate and friend.

Alfred. What words could be used to describe him? Bruce had known for years that the dapper Englishman was more than just a family servant: he was a friend and had raised him singlehandedly after his parents’ deaths. Bruce cherished him and would give his life to protect him.

And of course that meant the same for Clark. Bruce had never been head-over-heels-in-love before. Not even his close friendships with Vicky Vale and Silver St. Cloud had come close.

He knew there would be rocky times ahead. Even discounting the Master/slave dynamic and the problems that could bring, Bruce had never been in such a romantic relationship before in his life. If Clark was free, they would be bound to clash, as Bruce expected to be obeyed. He had been raised as the Prince of Gotham, and while that meant his share of responsibilities, he also was within his rights to expect certain privileges.

New territory, and one that he was happily willing to explore.

Bruce looked over at Clark, who at that moment glanced up from his book and smiled at him, his rainbow manacles and collar reflecting the glitter of the Christmas tree, starlight in his sapphire eyes.

Heart swelling with love, Bruce rose from the windowseat and rejoined Clark on the couch. He slipped his arm around Clark’s shoulders and his lover nestled his head on his shoulder.

Yes, Bruce was very content.

He had a select circle of family and friends that he cared about, and he really didn’t expect anyone else to join that circle any time soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **End of[Arc The Second (Shadow Of The Bat)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/362160/chapters/587658)**
> 
> **Next:[Arc The Third (RobinSong)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/365417/chapters/593491)**


End file.
